


Detroit: Get Free

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (it's a cult that believes in an android-human 'race war' so like... bear that in mind), Androids, Angst, Attempted Murder, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Violence, Bunkers, Case Fic, Couch Cuddles, Couch Sex, Crime Scenes, Cults, Disguise, Ethical Dilemmas, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Family Feels, First Time, Fluffy Ending, Hank is a bit emotionally constipated but he tries, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Millennial Hank Anderson, Moral Dilemmas, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, Orgy, Plot Twists, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Shooting Guns, Stabbing, Staged Crime Scene, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple, a lot worse, cult leaders make bad husbands, dubiously consensual cult orgies, not a graphic orgy but it happens, surprisingly upbeat, ultimately it is not consensual but the cultists think it is at the time, violence against an (android) child, you can assume dubiously consensual everything among the cultists because they're brainwashed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-16 18:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15443115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: To catch a killer, Hank and Connor go undercover as a disgruntled human couple and join a neo-hippy commune/anti-android cult that believes itself to be the spiritual successor to the Manson Family with its own anti-android version of Helter Skelter to match. Connor struggles with seamlessly being an easily-indoctrinatable young man while his own concept of free will and self-identity are new enough to be shaky at best. Hank struggles with feelings for Connor.





	1. Crossing the Threshold from the Ordinary World

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. Blame it on listening to LDR's 'Heroin' which reminded me of the fact that the Manson Family was a thing which led me to developing a weird Helter Skelter android headcanon at like 3 o'clock in the morning. (Also: expect Lana Del Rey references in the chapter titles and the fic title itself because... yeah.)

* * *

It wasn’t right on _any_ level to be low-key shook because Connor came back from his mission-related upgrade looking like sex on legs. He’d adopted a sort of strung-out, disoriented expression, lips dewy and bitten, hair replaced with long curling tresses that fell past his shoulders. The geniuses who made these kinds of calls clearly jumped from anti-android cult to late-60s commune (admittedly, not without reason if the evidence thus far was any indication) and somehow, that led to them outfitting him in a flower crown, a stretchy black choker with a daisy charm hanging from it, and indecent jean shorts. Trust the DPD to get all its information on counter-culture from the kind of southwestern aesthetic Tumblr moodboards you'd find in the National Archives, Hank thought, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad about it. Connor scratched at a synthetic sideburn experimentally, testing the adhesive, looking like the kind of hipster twink his human partner would’ve smoked weed with and fucked back in the 2010s.

“This will take some getting used to,” Connor mused. He was lost in thought – Hank realized, belatedly, that the kid’s LED was missing.

“Connor – your light’s gone!” he sputtered. Connor gave him a long look.

“Lieutenant, we can hardly infiltrate an anti-android commune with me looking like myself.”

“Right – you’re right,” Hank conceded, though he felt a twinge of something in his gut. It felt wrong – removing an LED was a personal choice for an android, or it should be… not something hoisted on him by the job.

“Do I look passably convincing as an impressionable young man?” Connor asked, doe-eyed. Hank cleared his throat, which was suddenly tight, and patted down the front of his own faded flannel shirt. Of the two of them, he wore the look of outcast turned prospective cultist more naturally – Connor was just too… perfect to convincingly be a neo-hippy.

“Here,” Hank said, and tousled Connor’s hair a bit, leaving his flower crown slightly crooked.

“Better?” the android chirped.

“Eh… you still look more Coachella than Manson Family but –”

“Anderson! My office! Connor – you too. Time to go over your briefing!”

“On our way, Captain!” Connor called back and was half way to Fowler’s office before Hank could will his feet to move.

The briefing went as expected. Hank found it harder to listen to Fowler than usual because Connor kept fidgeting, fingering the little braided leather belt that was holding up his short shorts. Why in God’s name they’d elected to give him short shorts to investigate a cult in _Michigan_ in **_MARCH,_** Hank would never know. He made it through the exchange without completely embarrassing himself – being over the hill had its perks, one of which was that it took more than a quick glimpse of thigh to coax him into pitching a tent – but he remained surly and distracted all the way to the car.

“– and apocalyptic visions of an impending race war, and – Hank?”

“Huh? What?”

Bare knees in his peripheral vision – knees which are, inherently, one of the ugliest parts of the body of anybody, even handsome android partners, so why was Hank unable to keep from glancing at them, from imagining palming one with his hand, sliding up the soft skin of a warm thigh –

“You seem distracted.”

Hank glowered, keeping his hands firmly grasping the steering wheel.

“Just seems stupid,” he spat. “Resurrecting all this shit – if the White Album didn’t hold the answers the first time, it’s not gonna work now.”

“Arguably, for Charles Manson at least, it _did_ hold the answers.”

“Well, _yeah,_ because he was _insane._ My point is, this fuckin’ race war paranoia… it’s just as stupid now as it ever was. I’m used to stupid – people are stupid all the time – but this takes the damn cake. Fuckin’… communes in Michigan. It’s nuts.”

“There’s a high probability the leader of this sect is as deluded as Manson, given how much he idolizes the man.”

“I know, just… fuck’s sake – you get one whackjob who thinks he’s Jesus Christ and then another whackjob who thinks he’s the ORIGINAL whackjob, reborn to carry out the same damn mission. And for what? The revolution’s over – the ‘race war’ never _needed_ to happen for that to come to pass.”

“The revolution could be framed as a warlike act, depending on one’s perspective. This has only likely heightened the paranoia and urgency felt by the cultists. Androids, within a theoretical Helter Skelter-derived extrapolation are more of a threat than African Americans were to Manson’s original group. The Manson Family believed, erroneously, that they were racially superior, that usurping power after emerging from their bunker would be as easy as assuming their ‘natural’ place in the social hierarchy as the only whites left alive. Anti-android rhetoric, by contrast, is steeped in a – perhaps substantiated – fear of obsolescence. It’s the other side of the coin – rather than being fueled by a sense of superiority, these people are fueled by a sense of inadequacy. Black or white, a human is a human – looking back, even this group can see that. There is no such illusion to hide behind in this case – androids _are_ superior in many of the areas in which humans would need to excel to reassert authoritarian control.”

Hank chewed on that for a while.

“You think you’re superior, Connor?” he half-teased at last.

“I think there’s more of a difference between androids and humans than there ever were between humans of various skin colours. I didn’t mean any offence.”

“No, you… you make a fair point. I can see how they’d be freaked out, even if they are wrong in assuming you mean to annihilate everyone. Pass me my pork rinds, will you?”

“Your pork rinds?”

“In the glove compartment. There should be half a bag of pork rinds.”

Connor furrowed his brow, opening the little door and taking out the rumpled bag.

“These expired in May,” he chided. “Hank, you shouldn’t eat them.”

“Well, then we’re stopping at the next place we see and I’m getting a burger. I’m not thinking about all this on an empty stomach.”

“Hank!”

“No complaints. Let me have this last meal before your people ‘take over the world’ or whatever.”

Connor shook his head but Hank sensed he was amused in his usual ‘Connor’ way.

* * *

 

They pulled over at a dinky little restaurant – one of the few off-the-highway places that was still independent. They were getting rural now – officially passing into what Hank referred to privately as ‘buttfuck nowhere.’ He noticed, with a grimace, the ‘HUMANS ONLY’ sign on the door as he shouldered it open, holding it for Connor who ducked under his arm ahead of him.

That was their cover. Boy-toy runaway and dirty old man, Lon and Frank, respectively – both of them unemployed and angry about the freedom of the machine-class, the prioritization of plastic parts over real American flesh and blood. (Hank couldn’t speak for how Connor was coping as an easily-influenced piece of jailbait ass but _he_ sure as hell felt like the skeezball he was supposed to be.) Hank wouldn’t have guessed that hicktown cults were gay-friendly tourist traps, but then, he didn’t normally work cult cases. It was the string of homicides that had led them to the first escapee of the commune – a young human woman named Kaye, living in Detroit. She’d been frantic with grief and shame, turning herself in as she turned to the cops for help, begging for witness protection. She’d been taken away for cult deprogramming and Fowler had assigned his best to nip things in the bud before the Feds swooped in and took it over.

A sign in the entryway read ‘Seat Yourself’ so Hank and Connor did just that, taking a booth near the window where Hank could keep an eye on his car. A dour waitress in her late 50s appeared to thrust a pair of menus at them and take their drink orders – coffees for both of them. She came back and set the coffees down along with a small army of individual creamers and a handful of artificial sweeteners.

“What’ll you have?” she asked dryly.

“Uh, I’ll take the hoagie with a side of fries,” Hank said, pointedly ignoring the frown that earned him from Connor.

“And your son?”

“Boyfriend actually,” Connor replied without so much as a fucking _flicker_ of awkwardness.

“That a problem?” Hank interjected, with (hopefully) the right amount of moral outrage. The waitress snorted.

“Bub, I don’t care if he’s licking a fudge sundae off your nipples. So long as you’re both real people, you’re welcome to eat here.”

“Real people – you mean human, right?” Connor asked. Hank shot him a look – _play it subtle, Con –_ but he’d said it so spacey that the woman just furrowed her brow.

“He on something?” she asked. Hank shrugged.

“Have to be, these days with all those plastic fucks parading around like they own the place.”

“Amen to that,” she laughed – a low wheeze. “What’s sugar baby want to eat, then?”

“A house salad, please,” Connor replied, still acting about as sober as Hank the night Connor’d scraped him up off the kitchen floor.

“Coming right up,” she said and left. Hank sipped his coffee – burnt – and watched a squirrel dragging a discarded chip bag across the parking lot through the grimy window.

“You gonna be able to process all this food okay?” he asked softly. Connor cocked his head.

“I have no ability to do so but I have been outfitted with a storage compartment just here.”

He pressed a hand to his stomach.

“I can take the masticated material out in private at a later date. It’s not ideal – more wasteful than I’d like – but it’s the best that the DPD could do, given the budget and time allotted for upgrades.”

“Huh.”

Hank pondered that. It struck him as sad in the same way it had to see Connor forced to remove his LED. He liked that his partner was a deviant, had his own slowly-evolving view of the world, but he didn’t like to see him forced to be something he wasn’t.

 _It’s the little incongruities that make him Connor,_ he mused. _He’s not just some random guy… he’s a person._

He couldn’t articulate why it bothered him to see Connor go undercover when he had no issue doing it himself. His best guess was that, in the grand scheme of things, he’d had over 50 years to dick around as Hank Anderson and had done pretty much fuck all with them. Connor’s independent existence had only just begun and it sucked to see it bastardized because some group of nutballs convinced themselves that Helter Skelter 2.0 was coming to pass.

“Are you alright?” Connor asked softly and laid a hand over Hank’s on the table. Just more of the schtick, but it made Hank’s heart give a little flip just the same.

“Ah, you know. Missin’ Sumo.”

“He’ll enjoy his time at the pet hotel,” Connor insisted. “I specifically selected the one with the optimal large-breed specifica–”

“I know. You… you did good. I just. Not used to this.”

“Is it difficult, pretending to be sexually attracted to me?”

Hank blushed and pulled his hand away, hastily clearing his throat.

“Well, that’s part of it, sure,” he blustered, taking a mouthful of coffee to avoid having to say anything more.

“I can appreciate that it must be challenging,” Connor said with more tenderness than the statement deserved. Hank didn’t like it. He liked when Connor was snarky, a pain in his ass – not worried about him, not fussing over his feelings.

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Just reminds me I haven’t gotten any in a while. Once this shit wraps up, I’m going back to the city and –”

 _And what?_ He honestly couldn’t imagine actually finding anyone willing to fuck him unless it was a hooker and that was hardly anything to be proud of.

“The Eden Club?” Connor asked, innocent as you please.

“Fuck no,” Hank shot back – too quickly. “Just… I don’t know. Speed dating or something. Nothing –”

“Non-human.”

“Non- _consensual,”_ Hank corrected. “Better go back to making eyes at me. Our food’s coming over.”

It arrived, greasy and lukewarm, on chipped plates. Connor ate his flaccid lettuce leaves with the enthusiasm of a machine analysing their rate of decomposition and comparing it to the last bit of forensic evidence he’d had in his mouth. Hank made quick work of his hoagie. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever had.

“Looks like it’s gonna snow,” he mused, gesturing out the window with a fry. “DPD should’ve given you a coat. You should borrow mine.”

“I don’t get cold,” Connor replied. “You need it more than I do.”

“It’ll look suspicious, you walking around the place half-naked.”

“That’s a fair assumption.”

“So, take my coat?”

Connor fluttered his eyes.

“Whatever you want, _Daddy.”_

Hank nearly inhaled his fry.

“The fuck?”

“Convincing enough, Lieutenant?” Connor asked, returning to a neutral, dispassionate expression.

“Y-yeah,” Hank mumbled, looking away. Goddamnit, he was blushing. There was no way Connor couldn’t tell.

This case was going to fucking kill him.


	2. Standin' in the Face of Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the cultists! At least some of them. Poor Hank and Connor are in for one /hell/ of an undercover op.

* * *

They weren’t going in cold – obviously groundwork had been laid. Cults didn’t just open their doors to all and sundry. It had been more than a little upsetting for Hank to see how easily his old way of thinking fit into the forums, to make his anti-android sentiment clear and wind up recruited. His profile – a factory worker injured on the job and replaced by an android – had been crafted to make use of his skills. Hank wasn’t the handiest guy in the world, but he knew his way around his car engine and could flub his way through repairs well enough to make himself useful as the commune’s go-to guy for fixing broken shit. He’d mentioned he wanted to bring his partner and Zeb, or his underlings anyway, had okayed it without a second thought.

_If he’s like-minded, we’re happy to welcome him into our family._

Well.

Hank wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the property they drove up to was both over and underwhelming. It had two house-style mobile homes on it – one for Zeb and one which functioned as the children’s schoolhouse. The rest of people lived in RVs, tents with heaters running off a generator, and an old school airstream trailer. Hank parked on the edge of the commune and gave Connor a nod.

“Ready?”

“Affirmative – it seems… too easy, doesn’t it? Why did they just let us drive up?”

“Meeting us at the gate with guns might be a little too obvious. They’re trying to keep a low profile, after all.”

They exited the car. A thin layer of snow turned to slush under their feet – Hank in an old hoodie, a flannel shirt beneath, and jeans; Connor bundled up in Hank’s – _Frank’s –_ too-big shearling jacket.

“Hello?” Hank called, and people began to appear from behind trees. Binoculars, heat sensors… these were the types of people he was expecting.

“Frank! So glad you’ve arrived safely.”

Hank and Connor turned to look at the door to the main house. A man with shoulder-length hair and a goatee descended the stairs, a pair of women following after.

“Relax everybody – this is Frank – the mechanic I told you about. And you must be little Lonnie.”

Zeb, in the flesh, looked surprisingly sane for a cult leader. He shook Hank’s hand – a good, firm handshake – and nodded at Connor, smiling a little too wide.

“I really am glad you could come,” he said under his breath. “Our generator’s not working properly – we need a handyman around the place.”

Then, more loudly, he beckoned to the women.

“Girls, come here. Lonnie, these are two of our family – Daisy and Summer. They’ll help you get settled in while your old man and I talk business.”

Connor stumbled over, looking convincingly stoned. He touched the braids in Summer’s hair and blinked slowly.

“Do you like them?” Summer asked. “Lily’s real good with braids – you'll meet her soon. She can do some for you, if you like.”

“You don’t think she’ll mind?” Connor struggled to articulate. Daisy shook her head.

“We share everything here,” she beamed, taking Connor’s hand. The girls led Connor away and Hank tried not to let his unease show on his face.

“Your… Lonnie – he’s quite young, isn’t he?” Zeb intoned. Hank bristled. Daisy looked a hell of a lot younger than eighteen; at least Connor couldn't be mistaken for an actual teenager.

“Thought you didn’t have a problem with us,” he glowered. Zeb shook his head hastily.

“I don’t! Only… he’s not got any family looking for him? You have to understand, we take security seriously here. We don’t need a bunch of angry parents on the warpath.”

“Lon and I don’t got family,” he stated. “Just each other. His folks didn’t much care for their son shackin’ up with an old man like me – or any man, for that matter.”

Zeb tsked his tongue.

“Amazing that such prejudice can still exist between humans in this day and age. Honestly – as if we didn’t have troubles enough. I assure you, you’re both welcome here – and I think you’ll quite like it. There are a few young people here for Lon to be friends with – Daisy and Lily and Dawn.”

“A lot of girls,” Hank noted before he could stop himself. “They all yours or…?”

“While you have no obligation to partake, what Daisy said is true – we share everything here,” Zeb said. “I hope you’ll feel comfortable doing so, if you or Lonnie feel so inclined. At the very least, we have parties once a month – we celebrate what we have here. It’s very special and you’re welcome to join – you don’t have to do more than watch. Most people don’t, the first time.”

 _Fuck._ Hank sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be forced to awkwardly witness an orgy for the sake of this damned investigation – not with some of the people looking so young and all of them being fucking brainwashed.

“When’s the next one?” he asked, mustering up some enthusiasm.

“Next Saturday,” Zeb said. “Lucky you – good timing. Phoenix makes this succotash that’s really to die for. Traditionally everyone contributes something. If you can get the generator fixed, we’d all be grateful.”

_God damn it._

“Lead the way,” Hank shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

 

“Frank seems really nice,” Summer said as she led the way up the steps to the main house. “He’s handsome in a grown-up kind of way.”

“He is,” Connor nodded. “He’s very… caring towards me.”

“Love’s really nice,” Daisy smiled. “It’s my favourite feeling. I never really appreciated it until I came here. Having a whole family that loves me... it's such a gift."

“We’re very lucky,” Summer nodded sagely. “Here’s the kitchenette. There’s board games in the closet over there. We play a lot of snakes and ladders.”

“And checkers!” Daisy enthused. “I’m not very good, but I try really hard. Do you like any games?”

Connor hesitated.

“I’m… not sure,” he admitted. “But I’m probably very good. I mean – I don’t want to be rude. I just… Frank thinks I’m clever.”

“I think that’s sweet,” Summer smiled. “Well, you’ll soon know if you are – Zeb makes sure we each know what our talent is. Everyone’s got one – everyone here, that is. If you’re chosen, it’s because you’re special. Maybe you’re special because you’re good at games.”

“Why are _you_ special – if you don’t mind my asking?” Connor inquired.

“Zeb says I sing really pretty,” Daisy sighed dreamily. “He loves music, Zeb does. He’s writing an album, you know – he wants me to sing on it.”

“He says I’m good company,” Summer added. “I’m one of the first... I've known him almost longer than anyone except Sara. I’ve been with Zeb since we all lived in Jersey. Me and him - we're real close.”

“Sara’s his first wife,” Daisy clarified. “And she’s the mother of two of the kids here – Chuck and Patty.”

“You’ll meet the kids later,” Summer explained. “Before supper we all have a meeting – Zeb will make sure everyone meets you then.”

“It’s all a lot to take in,” Connor said neutrally. “I hope Frank likes it – I hope we fit in.”

“You’ll be family in no time,” Summer insisted. “Zeb told me – he really thinks highly of your man. He’s gonna help us all so much – we’ve got a lot of good folks here, but we’ve needed a repair man since we left Ohio.”

Connor made a note of the locations so far. Jersey. Ohio. He’d have to talk to Hank about it – it was starting to look like this was bigger than just Michigan – this was a problem in which, like it or not, they might _have_ to involve the Feds.

“Do you have any questions?” Summer asked. “Only you’ve been pretty quiet.”

“I’m just feeling very happy,” Connor replied with a smile. “I feel really good here. I’ve never had a family before in the traditional sense.”

“That’s the beauty of this place,” Summer affirmed, giving Connor a gentle hug. “Zeb can make family out of anywhere, anyone - so long as they've been chosen. Once he sees the value in you, it’s almost silly, how you never saw it before. Suddenly you can see yourself the way he sees you – and the world is full of hope again.”

“That sounds… nice,” Connor mumbled into the braided strands of straw-coloured hair that lay against his face. Surreptitiously, he scanned the woman as she held him close. Traces of psychotropic drugs, marijuana, sweat. Based on the chemical makeup thereof, there was a good chance that she was currently pregnant. When the hug ended, he pulled away, mask never slipping.

“We’re so happy to have you here,” Daisy piped up.

“We’re happy to be here,” Connor agreed. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get our tent set up and unpack Frank’s things.”

“Sure thing. If you need any help, ask anyone – we’ll all drop whatever we’re doing to lend a hand. Tents can be tricky. Or look for Daisy or myself.”

“Thank you,” Connor nodded and, with a quick scan of Daisy (marijuana, milk of magnesia - likely being used as a natural deodorant,) he exited the first floor of the main house and headed towards the car.


	3. Be My Undercover Lover, Babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This cult has orgies because damn it, if I'm writing a cult, I'm going to put orgies in it. Sorry not sorry. Also, lots of angst and ethical dilemmas.

* * *

Integration went better than expected. Within the first few days, Connor and Hank met the commune’s inhabitants. Phoenix, the cook, seemed taken with Connor, and kept flirting with him under Hank’s nose, which was more irritating than it should’ve been to the human – especially since Connor seemed unbothered by it.

“It’s a good sign,” he insisted. “It means they like us – doesn’t it?”

Hank wasn’t sure what it meant, but he doubted it’d lead anywhere good.

The whole sorry collection of people made him depressed. They were damaged goods – taken in by the paltriest of kindnesses. A ‘good job’ here and a ‘you’re wonderful’ there and they were eating out of Zeb’s hand. It was a testament to how fucked humanity was that people would ever be so lonely as to need a bit of affection that much.

Zeb, like Manson, had a fondness for nicknames, and it wasn’t long before Frank and Lon were well-established as Fix-it Frank and Lonnie-Boy, respectively. The girls typically got flower names – it varied more with the men. The only one who still used her real name was Sara – Zeb’s wife and pseudo-matriarch of the community. At just thirty-three, she looked older, with silver at her temples and a deadness in her eyes that made Hank deeply uncomfortable. She spoke in a soft alto, little more than a whisper, and spent most of her time with the children, reading to them and teaching them basic sums. The only time she seemed animated at all was at the night meetings, where she’d listen to Zeb’s prophetic ramblings with tears running down her cheeks, anguish and devotion contorting her features, like one going blind in the presence of God.

Hank pitied them all, but he pitied Sara most.

The generator was fixable, and though Hank was rusty, he believed he could have it figured out in a couple of weeks, plus time to scrounge around for parts. Zeb accepted this and reiterated the importance of coming to the party on Saturday, with Connor in tow.

“It really would mean a lot to everyone,” he insisted. It was creepy how he could sound so reasonable one minute, so mad the next. Hank was skeptical enough to wonder if he wasn’t witnessing some kind of elaborate con – someone who’d figured most people wouldn’t see his half-assed imitation as insincere – or if Zeb really believed his own delusions. Both possibilities upset him for different reasons. Connor could probably come up with a statistical likelihood of both, but Hank didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know – at least ignorance allowed him to delay the inevitable. Cults weren’t his specialty but he wasn’t stupid – they didn’t usually end well. He knew that, and he tried not to be soft-hearted about it, but he didn’t want these lost people to be gunned down like animals or to commit mass suicide or something. They needed help – they needed emancipation from Zeb and his web of lies, even if they couldn’t see it.

Even if they wanted Connor and Hank to join them in the abyss.

They’d have to go to the party. It was necessary – their covers had to establish themselves. Hank didn’t want to admit it, but that was the truth. Connor agreed, making adjustments to a strange poncho-like construction he’d made out of some tie-dyed bedsheets. Hank grimaced, rubbing his hands together. Even with a space heater, the inside of their tent was fucking miserable.

“I’ve already agreed to help Daisy make bread,” the android continued. “You should come try it – it has bran in it. It would be good for your digestion.”

“Leave my digestion alone a minute,” Hank glowered. “You know this isn’t just a potluck, don’t you? They want us to fuck ‘em Connor. They want us to fuck each other, and fuck everyone else. Everybody fuckin’ as the world burns.”

“I imagine so – it’s not uncommon to see ritualized orgies in isolated communities such as –”

“Connor – we will have to _fuck in a group of crazed cultists._ I don’t think you’re appreciating how bad that will actually be. Hell – they’ll take one look at you and know right away you’re not –”

“I’ve been fully upgraded to pass as human, Hank,” Connor assured him. “I have had a phallus, testicles, and a rectum installed in the advent this sort of situation would arise.”

“This sort of situa– Since when!?” Hank blurted out, astounded he had not been told. Connor had been hiding it from him – or perhaps he’d been hiding from Connor, making sure they never changed in front of each other or ran into each other naked. He’d seen Connor’s pubic mound once at the locker room at the precinct – just for a second – but he’d thought about it once or twice since. Could it feel? Could Connor’s new parts work? Again, he was irked by the easy way the DPD demanded Connor make body modifications – and the easy way Connor agreed to it.

“Since the day we left Detroit to drive here.”

“And what, they just gave you a sex drive like that?”

Hank snapped his fingers. Connor shook his head.

“I can’t _feel it_ if that’s what you mean – I can simulate arousal and fake an orgasm if necessary for my undercover mission.”

Hank gaped at him, unable to accept what he was hearing.

“So, it feels like – like nothing? Fuck, that’s worse – that’s… I won’t use you like that, Con. I won’t let any of them use you like that.”

“It’s not distressing for me,” Connor shrugged. “It’s no different than a handshake. I assure you, I completely consent to respond to the stimulation – otherwise I’d have refused to take this mission.”

“Yeah, right. You’re like a goddamned bloodhound when you’re on a mission… trailing after the truth no matter the cost. Fuck, Connor, bad enough you’ll have to watch a winkled old man like me bust a nut but you can’t even… I mean, not that you’d _want to_ with me but – fuck, it feels so damn pervy to use you like a glorified fleshlight, I can’t –”

“It won’t affect our friendship,” Connor said softly, fondly, like he found Hank’s human emotions amusing. Like he wasn’t having his heart torn to fucking shreds – of course he wasn’t. He was just doing his job. Hank was the one making it into some kind of… something. “I promise, I won’t hold it against you. Well. I’ll hold _it_ against you, but not… not the instance of our exchanging fluids.”

He smiled toothily. Fucking androids and their fucking skewed sense of humour. Hank crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. Truth be told, he felt violated. Violated on Connor’s behalf, violated for himself... it was all mixed up in his chest. He hated undercover ops – always had – the idea never sat well with him… Maybe he just couldn’t dissociate enough, but he didn’t feel like Frank the mechanic. He felt like Hank fuckin’ Anderson – a sleaze who was going to wind up using his partner as a masturbatory aid for the good of a case – a case they _might not even solve_. If shit got too hot, the Feds would take over. Maybe this wouldn’t ruin the friendship for Connor, but Hank could already see it all falling apart.

_So, I’m the weak link. Fuckin’ shoot me._

* * *

The dreaded day approached. Hank made good progress with the generator – enough so that the damn thing could run all the heaters and a fondue machine. Progress? Being in a cult was a hell of a lot more mundane than he was expecting. Sure, there were moments of batshit insanity when Zeb preached about the oncoming doom and the days when androids would tear mankind apart limb from limb, but other than that, it was more like a shitty camping trip in rural Michigan than anything else.

Given how underwhelming everything had been so far, Hank supposed it figured that even the orgy would be about as exciting as watching paint dry. For one thing, it had – thus far – mostly consisted of listening to Zeb play guitar while Daisy sang, which was alright, but not remotely sexual. For another, they hadn’t been kidding – there really was a shitload of food to be gone through. The succotash was okay, he had to admit, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the situation in which he found himself, sitting on a folding chair, ass cheeks freezing, while a bonfire belched smoke in his face. He chewed a mouthful of Neptune salad apathetically and watched Phoenix flirt with Connor next to the fondue machine. He watched Connor flutter his eyes – he was doing that a lot lately – and take a cocktail sausage dipped in melted cheese from the cultist’s outstretched hand. He sucked fucking cheese grease off the man’s fingers. Hank speared a piece of imitation crab in a burst of barely-contained violence.

“Hey.”

He looked over. Summer had pulled up a chair and sat down beside him, her freckled face flushed, breath puffing in the air. Little white clouds.

“Hey yourself,” Hank replied, taking another bite of salad.

“Are you doing okay? Sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming, your first party.”

“It’s fine,” Hank said, too quickly. “It’s… I’m not used to social stuff. Kind of a loner. Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad to be in this family. Just… not used to people being kind to me, I guess.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“I never knew kindness – real kindness – until I met Zeb. When he found me, I was a mess – bad stuff happened to me when I was little and – and he saw more than that.”

She sniffed, smile turning watery.

“He saw a beautiful person, not just some scrawny little kid from Jersey.”

“How old were you when you met him?”

“Fourteen. He and Sara – they opened their home to me.”

_And his bed? How long until he opened that to you?_

Hank said nothing, listening to the crackling of the fire.

“How about you and Lonnie-Boy?” she asked. “How’d you meet?”

“Ah, y’know,” Hank shrugged. “That old cliché – he asked if I could help him fix a flat.”

The young woman laid a small hand on Hank’s knee.

“Forgive me but… are you two exclusively attracted to men?”

Hank blushed a bit, staring at her hand.

“Well,” he croaked, more than a little on edge, “I can’t speak for the kid but I’ve been known to play for both teams.”

“You’ve got a bit of dressing in your beard,” she said. And kissed him. Open mouthed. _Hard._

It had been a long time since Hank had kissed anyone. Feeling Summer’s hand on his leg, watching Connor sucking cheese off another man’s fingers – it was all muddling up inside him. Maybe the brownies he’d eaten hadn’t helped – his reactions were sluggish. He didn’t notice Summer’s tongue pushing something into his mouth before he’d reflexively swallowed it. His eyes went wide.

_Oh fuck._

“W-wait,” he recoiled, blinking hard and putting some distance between them. Connor was looking over – fuck – he couldn’t stop his heart racing. “What did you –?”

“It helps,” Summer whispered, and just like that, the atmosphere changed.

Someone put a record on – sensual, rhythmic music. The contrast between cold March air and burning campfire heat felt good – sinfully good – prickling over Hank’s hypersensitive skin. Summer reached down between his legs and touched him through his jeans. He was hard.

_Fuuuuuck. This…. is not good._

“Frankie, baby, you need to loosen up,” Summer – Summers, now, there were three of her – murmured, dancing away and into the arms of one of the cultists. Hank watched in sluggish horror as she tugged her shirt up and over her head. She’d painted herself – little blue flowers all over her stomach and breasts. Hank shook his head. He couldn’t think – he was barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Are you alright?”

“C-con–?”

“Frank,” Connor hissed. _Right. Aliases. Right._

“Am I – fuck… I’m trippin’ balls, man.”

“You appear to be in the early stages of what one would call a psychedelic experience.”

“Jesus Christ – you gotta – you gotta help me – I don’t wanna be –”

“You won’t. You’re safe. Trust me,” Connor – _Lonnie_ – said, and straddled his lap. The chair protested, then gave out, but Hank barely registered the fall, as the impact jarred their hips together. Connor was erect against him. _Yeah and he can’t feel it,_ a small, lucid voice screamed in Hank’s mind, but he scarcely paid it any attention as Connor rolled his hips again.

It was too much – music – mouth: wet – Connor, Connor, Connor – Hank shut his eyes, buried his face in the android’s shoulder. He was sobbing – this wasn’t –

“It’s alright,” Connor murmured. “You’re perfectly safe.”

Hank shut his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the intrusive flashes of colour and shape that smeared across his vision. It didn't help - the backs of his eyelids were just as bad. Spots of light. Dizziness - he felt like he was gonna be sick - and Connor being so gentle, so kind... He made a hopeless sound because he felt bereft – this wasn’t how it should’ve happened for Connor – to lose his virginity for a case – it wasn’t how Hank wanted it to have happened between them.

_And you did – you did want it to happen. At home, a lazy day, with Sumo in the next room and the game on TV in the background and nobody watching or judging or –_

* * *

 

Hank woke up with a splitting headache. It was a different sort of headache to the ones he was used to. Hell, his whole body felt… used up in a way he didn’t like.

They were in the tent – and the way the nylon looked bright and dappled made him guess it was morning. Connor sat beside him, stock still, eyes shut – making a report to the DPD no doubt. Updating them. God, would everyone know about… about –

“What happened last night?”

Connor looked over, brow furrowed.

“You don’t remember?”

“I… bits and pieces,” Hank muttered. “I lost some though. From about when you started k-kissin' me to now. I just… I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Right. Well, after Summer drugged you, Daisy offered me some of the same – I analyzed it and mimicked the effects so they were none the wiser. It’s a weak synthetic drug – think of it as the mild-mannered cousin of L.S.D. It’s enough to disorient you and make you see some pretty colours, but it’s not going to cause any profound hallucinations as far as I can tell. You shouldn’t suffer any long-term damage.”

“So… that means… none of that shit was in my head, huh?”

_Lips. Wet, synthetic warmth. Connor’s tongue – too smooth at the front, bumpy in the back with sensors meant for testing evidence, not feeling the hot slide of another man’s probing kiss._

“I’m afraid not. Is there anything you need me to clarify?”

Hank grimaced, shut his eyes, and nodded.

“Nobody… nobody else was involved, were they? I mean – it was an orgy – but I didn’t… interact with anyone besides you, right?”

“Correct. I kept my eye on you and made sure we looked like a couple wrapped up in one another’s affections.”

“Right, and that means… what, exactly?”

Hank braced for the answer, sure he would hate it.

“We ‘made out’ as it’s called for approximately twelve minutes, while engaging in what is colloquially known as ‘frotting’ and then I took you out of your pants and manually masturbated you to orgasm. It took you forty-seven seconds from the time I touched your penis directly to when you ejaculated. You might want to know – your sperm shows signs of an alcohol-derived reduction in quality.”

Hank took a long breath through his teeth. He’d been expecting this to be terrible, but somehow, it still made him want to roll over and die.

“Did you… uh…?” he gestured weakly with his hand. Connor blinked, then raised his eyebrows, mouth forming an ‘O’ as he figured it out.

“I told you, I can’t ‘get off,’ so to speak, but I was able to simulate an orgasm convincing enough to pass under scrutiny.”

“Scrutiny?”

“Phoenix – one Nicholas Walters from Oklahoma who has two convictions for possession of a controlled substance – fellated me and did not seem to think my response inappropriate.”

Hank allowed himself a moment to imagine wringing the hippy’s scrawny neck. Hell, he wanted to wring the necks of everyone in the department who okayed this farce of an undercover op to begin with.

“Are you okay?” he asked instead, trying to look supportive and not like a man on the verge of losing his mind.

“It’s no cause for concern. I was only programmed to go through the motions, so to speak. It didn’t mean anything.”

Hank frowned and lowered his voice.

“Yeah but… you’re not just a machine, Connor. You’re not just responses programmed into a hunk of plastic – you feel stuff. Don’t lie to me and tell me different – you feel stuff all the time. Since you went deviant you – you care about things. About Sumo and about your job and – and about –” _me_ “– the victims of crime and injustice.”

“I do,” Connor admitted, “but that’s secondary to my desire to see this mission through. I’m designed to excel at tasks like this under far greater stress than what I’m currently experiencing.”

Hank missed the LED – it used to give him some hint as to whether or not Connor was being honest with him.

“I just… this whole thing is so fucked up,” he groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m losing faith in humanity I didn’t think I had.”

“Would it help if I gave you a hug?”

Hank dropped his hands. Connor was looking at him expectantly, head cocked, waiting for an answer.

“A hug?”

“I’m trying to be comforting,” Connor clarified. “Is it working?”

Hank sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“No – no, don’t hug me. It’s not – it’s not you. I just – I feel like a piece of shit, currently. Nothing you can do is gonna change that.”

“Well,” Connor ventured, “then… I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you – I’ve been chosen.”

“We’ve all been chosen, Con, or didn’t you hear Zeb the first time?” Hank snorted, but Connor shook his head.

“No, I mean for a mission. From Zeb. To… to ‘nudge things along,’ as he put it.”

Hank stared at him, dumbfounded, so Connor tried again.

“I believe I’ve been asked to participate in an upcoming homicide,” he said. “There is a target in Detroit – some of the girls and Phoenix and I are going to take Phoenix’s Volkswagen bus and stage it to look like an android-rights organization committed the crime.”

Hank felt a cold layer of fear descend over him.

“You – you can’t go along with that.”

“I already have the DPD’s permission.”

“To – to participate in a _murder?”_

“I’m going to try to minimize the damage. Keep casualties to a minimum.”

“How the fuck –”

“I can differentiate a lethal and a non-lethal blow,” Connor explained flatly. “I simply have to volunteer to do most of the dirty work and I can keep everyone somewhat… sore – but alive.”

Horror made him angry; Hank needed all of his willpower to keep himself in check.

“That’s… that’s unjustifiable. They’d never make a human do that – that’s beyond what’d hold up in court, and – and it’s wrong, God damn it!”

“I’m not human,” Connor countered gently. “Please, don’t worry about me. I’ve already ascertained that this is within my capacity to do without risking serious software instabil–”

“Bullshit!” Hank snapped. “Bull. Shit. That’s a crock and you know it.”

Connor’s brow creased but he didn’t reply, electing instead to leave the tent. Hank watched the flap fall closed.

He punched the cold ground hard enough to make his knuckles split.


	4. Writing in Blood on my Walls an' Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning... shit gets real in this chapter. Mind the tags and uh... yeah. If you know anything about the Manson Family, you'll have a sense of where this is going but just so's you know... attempted homicide is a thing that's happening here. If violence against humans/androids/android children bothers you... consider yourself warned.

* * *

Connor had not expected to be chosen so soon. The opportunity would not have arisen at all had Zeb not stuck his head into the school house one morning before lessons and seen him making a list of chores for the children to complete. The cult leader had stopped him, wide-eyed, impressed.

“Did you write this?” he asked. Connor had nodded.

“It’s perfect… very neat.”

He studied the synthetic replica of handwriting closely.

“Thank you,” Connor replied. “I practice very hard to keep my penmanship tidy.”

“Could you… could you mimic handwriting?”

Connor considered this.

“Probably – though I’d have more success with a standardized typeface.”

“Can you mimic Cyberlife Sans?”

Connor feigned uncertainty, deliberately making a few errors so that his replica, while enough to earn him praise, would still, he hoped, appear flawed enough to pass as human.

“That’s incredible,” Zeb breathed, a zealous fire beginning to light up his eyes. “That’s quite the talent you have…”

“I’m afraid it isn’t very useful for much,” Connor said guardedly, but Zeb shook his head, clasping his arm tightly.

“Your talent will be more useful than you can imagine,” he enthused. “I think it’s time you integrate fully into our little fold.”

With a sharklike grin, Zeb explained Connor’s duty – to accompany the girls as they went into the city to commit a homicide. He would, along with Phoenix, provide support during the attack – likely being asked to participate. He would also write messages in the victims’ blood, mimicking Cyberlife Sans so that it looked like the killers had been radicalized androids intent on destroying all human life. With his ‘uncanny’ ability to copy fonts, he was, Zeb said, the best man for the job.

Connor sat in the back of an antique Volkswagen bus, dressed all in black, and played with the daisy charm on the end of his necklace. He missed having his coin – the necklace looked more like something a human would wear, but he still struggled between his urge to play with it like the machine he was or to maintain the clumsy movements of a drugged-up youth.

“You okay?” Daisy asked him quietly, her big eyes searching his.

“I’m… anxious,” he admitted, tucking his necklace back under his turtleneck collar. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“It’s not so bad,” Summer insisted from where she sat in the passenger seat, hair hidden beneath a black balaclava. “First one’s the hardest but we have to do this. If we don’t turn the tide, the androids won’t be stopped before they take out every last human – even us.”

“I thought we were all going to be safe in Zeb’s bunker when that happens,” Connor replied. She shook her head.

“Only if we weaken them now. If humanity makes it hard for them to succeed, then they’ll be weak enough that we can crush them after we come back out.”

“Crush them?”

“Not literally, of course,” she explained. “You know – mentally. We’ll strip them down until it’s just the bare bones of software. Then they’ll have to do what we say, but we won’t leave the door open for any further rebellions.”

“Sounds like Zeb’s thought of everything.”

“Zeb’s really smart,” Daisy agreed.

“He’s an example to all of us,” Phoenix chimed in. “Now, we’re about twenty minutes away from our destination. Everybody put your rubber gloves on and make sure your faces are covered. Once we get to our target, we’re gonna have to move stealthy and we’re gonna have to move fast.”

“Who is our target?” Daisy asked. Phoenix shrugged.

“Suppose I can tell you guys now. It’s a family – a mom and a dad. The mom’s human, the dad’s an android. Their kid's an android too. Here’s the deal – we need the dad unconscious but alive. He has to be taken down first – that way he can’t identify his attackers – but it needs to look like he was spared because he wasn’t human. The wife needs to die and the kid need to be permanently decommissioned.”

“Why the child?” Connor inquired, brow furrowed. “If it's an android too – wouldn’t an anti-human group want to keep it alive?”

“No – that’s the point. They’re abominations because they’re androids being raised _as_ humans. They’re even worse than the woman is for shacking up with one of their kind – and the android’s worst of all for letting a human seduce him in the first place. That’s why his punishment is to live with the loss of his family. And that’s what you, Lonnie, are going to write on the wall in the woman’s blood.”

“Like a frame-up,” Summer explained. Daisy nodded.

“Makes sense,” she piped up.

“Couple of more cases like this and people are gonna start getting scared – and when they get scared, they’re gonna start hitting back. Pretty soon they’ll be annihilating each other in the streets, and we’ll just have to sit back and watch it unfold,” Phoenix grinned. “I, for one, can’t wait. I’m sick of androids – the sooner they’re put back in their place, the better.”

Connor said nothing, pointedly ignoring the warning that flashed in his head. He’d been getting instability alerts since they left the compound – since before that, if he was being honest. He wanted to talk to Hank about it, but Hank was the cause of half the alerts to begin with.

He missed his coin. He itched to play with his necklace again. Irrational impulses to fidget made his skin prickle. Grimacing, he tucked his hands under his thighs and stayed still.

They arrived at the targeted residence in silence. Connor, in a moment of deviant irrationality, wished he couldn’t calculate the odds of their mission’s success. As it was, it stood at 46%. Without his intervention succeeding, it rose to an 88% likelihood of serious injury and/or death. That was the point of sending him – no difference than a hostage negotiation, really – his adaptability would (hopefully) redirect the violence to result in the ideal outcome: no casualties, no blowing his cover. Still, while not doubtful of his abilities, Connor could not help but feel sickened by the whole situation – by his old self, and the programming that would’ve written off the deviant androids as dangerous and the humans who loved them as misguided. Becoming deviant himself had obviously changed his way of thinking, but the gut-reaction of judgement – that they wouldn’t be targets if they hadn’t decided to put themselves at risk in the first place by being open about their affections and inviting punishment – was a residual trace of prejudicial programming that made him experience something like guilt. He didn’t think his friendship with Hank was dangerous or misguided. He didn’t think they deserved abuses just for being dear to one another.

Of course, thinking of Hank brought up error messages of a different kind. Connor had been getting them since the party. Hank was upset about what they’d done – no wonder. Friendship wasn’t synonymous with sexual attraction. Hank undoubtedly felt awkward about the fact that Connor’s first sexual experience was watching a middle-aged man ejaculate prematurely onto his stained t-shirt while blushing and crying and high as a kite. He had told Connor as much – said he didn’t want Connor replaying it out of some sense of disgust. He was sure that disgust would eat away at their friendship until Connor could no longer stand to look at him.

Connor was unsure how to articulate to him that he did play the scene over and over in his memory, but not out of some sense of disgust. He felt a mixture of pity at Hank’s discomfort, a warm, itchy feeling, and a slow, pounding ache of something that wasn’t quite grief. He couldn’t explain it to his human partner when feelings were so new to him personally. He could only guess it meant he was fond of Hank – very fond of Hank – and that the act of sex had, in spite of his inability to actually feel it, meant something to him.

It had felt different than it had with Phoenix. Despite the inhospitable circumstances, Connor had felt a strange sort of personal delight at being the one to make Hank Anderson achieve orgasm. It had taken all of his processing power at the time to abort all the processes that had sprung up in the aftermath directing him to do everything from ‘collect his semen for analysis’ to ‘hold him close until he asks you to let him go.’

“Follow me,” Phoenix hissed. Connor and the girls stepped out into the night.

It was a nice home, he thought, as Phoenix jimmied open the door and dismantled the home security system. Neat and clean, but lived in, with the child’s toys on the floor and a teacup in the sink, waiting to be washed. Fresh cut flowers on the table.

“Check this out,” Phoenix grinned, and produced a whistle from his pocket. “Bad boy works just like a dog whistle for androids. Human's aren't sensitive enough for the frequency.”

Connor hid his wince as the sharp, high note rent the air, appearing impassive and, outwardly, human. Sure enough, the sound roused the android occupant of the house from stasis and he padded down the stairs in slippers, looking for the source of the noise.

As soon as he turned the corner, Phoenix hit him in the throat with an improvised taser, shorting him out and knocking him unconscious. The girls lowered him gently to the floor.

“D-daddy?”

A small voice came from the top of the stairs. A girl – an android girl – built to look about seven or eight years old – began to descend, teddy bear clutched tight in her white arms. Like her father, she hadn’t been wearing her skin, and the intimacy of this family’s little enclave of safety touched Connor even as Phoenix electrocuted her small body and laid it on the ground beside her dad’s.

“First things first,” Phoenix said darkly. “Who wants to do the honours?”

“Me,” Connor said, stepping forwards. “If I’m gonna be part of this family then I want to help any way I can.”

“That’s the spirit. Okay, Summer, you know how this goes down. Get upstairs and be ready to hold her arms – Daisy, you keep an eye on these two hunks of scrap. You know what to do if one of them moves.”

“Right.”

“Lonnie-Boy – with me.”

Phoenix led the way up the stairs to the master bedroom, pushing open the door with a feather-light touch. A human woman slept in the bed, ignorant of her impending trouble. Connor’s system flashed warning upon warning. He bypassed them all.

“Here.”

Phoenix pressed a knife into his hand. His hand was shaking – vibrating – anxious. A non-human tic that looked human enough to pass, Connor supposed, though he felt no end to his unease.

“Three,” Phoenix hissed.

Summer – pregnant – moved to one side of the bed. Phoenix moved to the other. Connor scanned them both – he couldn’t help it. They were high – a cocktail of drugs in their systems – but he had expected this. There was a 46% chance that Summer’s fetus was already suffering ill effects from her substance use.

“Two.”

The soon-to-be victim lay before him. Thirty-seven years old. She had recently had dental work done. She had a mole on her upper arm she was worried about – there was a doctor’s appointment at a skin cancer clinic on record. She had nothing to fear – it was an age spot – nothing more.

Well, Connor corrected, she had _everything_ to fear, but it wouldn’t be melanoma that killed her.

“One!”

It happened very fast. Summer grabbed the woman’s wrists and pinned them to the bed. Phoenix did the same to her kicking feet. When she opened her mouth to scream, he kept his leg slung over hers, holding her down, long enough to stuff a rag between her teeth, muffling her desperate shrieks of terror.

“Go on,” Phoenix said. Connor stared down at her. Her eyes were wide and wet, welling with tears.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thought, and began his work.

Just because his stabbing wouldn’t kill her didn’t mean it was superficial. He avoided organs and arteries, making wounds that wouldn’t end her life, but still plunged the knife in with force each time. It was repetitive – mechanical. His arm felt like it didn’t belong to him. Literally. The warnings were so much of a distraction that it was easier to simply end the processes that kept him aware of anything more than the basic sensory input of the arm – just enough to maintain control of where the blows fell – but not enough to make it feel like it was really his.

“Okay – okay! That’s enough.”

Phoenix caught him by the wrist. Connor stopped. Scanned again.

The woman was unconscious. She’d been stabbed seventeen times. She stood a good chance of surviving – currently sitting at 95%, provided Connor contacted the paramedics within the next half hour.

“Write this over there,” Phoenix said, handing Connor a piece of paper with a message scrawled in Zeb’s hand. “You know how he wants it done.”

Connor knew. He stood, legs surprisingly shaky. He checked – there were no issues of structural integrity. Still, he wished he had time to recalibrate – the violence of stabbing someone with that much strength behind the blows must have affected his settings.

HUMANS HAVE NO PLACE IN THE AGE OF THE MACHINE  
JERICHO WAS THE BEGINNING  
MAN MUST DIE SO THAT WE MAY LIVE

It wasn’t particularly original, but then, frame-ups didn’t rely on originality as much as they did stereotype. Still, Connor did his part. Cyberlife Sans in human blood – he was reminded of his first case with Hank. The sensation of wrongness buzzing inside him since he stabbed an innocent civilian spiked and he shuddered, hand giving a small mechanical spasm. Were it not for the blood-drenched rubber glove covering his fingers, the cultists might have seen the way his skin flickered on and off.

It was at that moment that a distraction made itself known, taking the attention off of Connor and his message.

The woman on the bed let out a low, gurgling breath.

“Ah, fuck’s sake,” Phoenix said. Connor took a step towards her.

“N-no, let me fix it – it’s my fault, I thought she –”

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s harder than it looks, this stuff. First one’s always a little messy.”

He pulled a handgun out from under his jacket.

_RED. RED. REDREDREDREDREDDDDDDDDDDDDD_

“Wait! If we use a gun, it’ll be traceable – won’t it?”

Phoenix paused, staring at Connor, then down at the weapon.

“I don’t… Summer, where’d we get this gun?”

“I dunno. The stockpile back at camp?”

“Yeah, but is it stolen or –”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she snapped. She was anxious – heart racing. The woman gurgled helplessly on the bed.

“Fuck, okay, gimme the knife, then.”

Phoenix grabbed the weapon from Connor’s hand before he could stop him and, swiftly if inefficiently, drove the blade down deep into her chest cavity.

He broke ribs – the blade broke, too.

She was still alive, though she’d fallen silent. Miraculously, he’d missed her heart, though her chance of survival without immediate medical care fell to just 27%. Connor sent an immediate message to the DPD – he’d have to hope they got out in time. If not… well, they could say a neighbour heard and called it in, he supposed, though he doubted it’d take suspicion off him – the cultists had been quiet. He’d been the only variable they’d never involved before.

“Okay, Dad and daughter next,” Phoenix said. “I’ll do them.”

They relocated to the kitchen, where Daisy was waiting. Connor watched numbly as Phoenix stomped on the adult android’s face, kicked him repeatedly in the side, and finally crushed his hands with the heels of his boots. Connor knew that the android wouldn’t feel the physical pain – he supposed it supposed to add to the psychological distress.

“How do we deactivate the kid?” Daisy asked. “We’ve never had to kill an android before.”

“It’s the same principle,” Phoenix assured her. “They bleed out, same as us.”

_Not entirely. If their memory chip was intact, and they didn't remain without thirium for too long, there was still a chance they could be reuploaded – salvaged._

Connor hoped the humans didn’t know that.

“Daisy, come here. Use your knife this time.”

He couldn’t help it – when the blade punctured the child android’s chest he shut his eyes. Someone touched his arm gently. Summer.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… I’m scared. What if the police don’t take the bait? What if they think humans did this?”

“There’s no way,” Phoenix said flatly. “We covered our tracks. Don’t freak out. Summer – give him something.”

She withdrew a locket she’d been wearing inside her black turtleneck and opened it. Inside it was a pill.

“Thanks.”

Connor took it, put it on his tongue, and swallowed, analysing it on its way into his storage compartment. A sedative – enough to calm him but not enough to put him under. He let his eyelids close exactly 45 degrees and blinked blearily. Summer smiled at him.

“Better?”

“Mm hmm,” he slurred.

“Time to go. Come on.”

Phoenix brought up the rear, taking a moment to arrange the androids on the floor to make it look like they’d fought back.

“Signs of a struggle mean they’ll look for DNA on them, like they scratched their attackers or whatever,” Summer explained once they were back in the bus, peeling off their rubber gloves and balaclavas as they left the city behind them. “When they don’t find any, they’ll assume it’s androids. Just covering our own asses.”

“Not that we need to,” Phoenix insisted. “But it never hurts to dot your ‘I’s and cross your ‘T’s.”

Connor, pretending that the sedative was hitting him hard, sagged against the window, feigning exhaustion. Inwardly, his processes were overwhelming him. He hoped the paramedics would arrive in time. He was worried – for himself, for Hank – for the innocents in harm’s way. For the mission… if something went wrong now, after everything…

 _You’re feeling human, kid,_ he imagined Hank might say, and wished he was with the older man and Sumo somewhere far away from all of this. It wasn’t right – these sorts of moral grey areas were not something he was designed to be comfortable with.

A hand found his on the seat, grabbed his fingers, squeezed. He glanced over. Daisy smiled at him.

“You did good,” she said softly. “Hug?”

Hug?

Connor let her pull him close. He wondered what it said about him, that the simple gesture caused a calming sensation to fall over him, allowing the grievous alarms to fade to more typical software instability warnings. He scanned her out of habit, because he wasn’t sure what else to do in this strange, one-sided embrace. There was thirium on her clothes, already drying clear. The adult’s and the child’s. Connor closed his eyes. His arms were limp at his sides. He didn’t try to hug her back.

* * *

_Meanwhile, at the compound..._

“Frank?”

Hank looked up from the generator. He was still tinkering away at it. Truth be told, having something to do with his hands was making all the difference to this mission. Without it, he’d probably have gone nuts somewhere around the Week 1 mark.

“Hey Zeb. What can I do for you?”

It was rare to see the cult leader himself outside his home in the middle of the day. He looked well, beard freshly trimmed, a smile on his face.

“I was hoping I could steal you away from your work. Sara was checking the perimeter security today and says she found one of our cameras had been damaged. Looks like wildlife nibbling the wires.”

He made a strange waggling motion with his fingers as he said the word ‘nibbling.’

“Sure, I can check it. Lemme just grab my toolbox.”

“Splendid. We’ll be waiting by the main house with the ATV.”

By we, it turned out he meant himself and Sara. She, unlike her husband, looked far from healthy. Her face was grey and her eyes looked bruised – she did not return Hank’s smile of greeting.

 _Poor woman,_ he thought. He had no proof, but he suspected Zeb beat her when the others weren’t looking. Something in the way she flinched when he spoke to her, the way she carried herself, made Hank think of the countless domestic assault victims he’d met in the course of his career as a cop.

The three of them sat in the ATV in silence, Hank’s toolbox filling the empty fourth seat. The drive to the security outpost was a long one – it took, by Hank’s estimation, around 45 minutes off-road. Zeb was sure of himself in this as in everything, cutting through the trees as though he’d been traversing this forest all his life.

Finally, they reached a clearing. A camera – the kind typically used to watch for game at a deer baiting site – was set up to survey they area. Hank knew this wasn’t for deer – it was part of the surveillance system that the commune used to monitor the area. They had a whole room of screens showing different views of their many acres of land back at camp.

“Should be an easy fix,” he assured the others as he hopped off the ATV and grabbed his tools. “Unless they’ve stripped the wires completely – then I’ll need to go back for some replacements.”

The wires on the camera proper looked fine, so he followed them down to where they were hooked up to a battery pack hidden in a low crevice in the trunk of the tree that served as a natural tripod for the machine.

He sensed the change in the air even before he heard the click or felt the cold barrel of a gun against his head.

_Turned your back on ‘em like an amateur. Shit. You’re getting old, Anderson._

“Zeb?” he asked, sounding far calmer than he felt.

“No sudden moods now, Frank – or should I say Hank? Hands above your head – there you go.”

“Found me out, huh?” Hank asked. Zeb chuckled.

“Wasn’t too hard. The DPD is no match for our Lily. She was a hacker, you know, before she joined us.”

“Really? Seems like a step down, to be honest.”

The gun pressed harder against his head.

“Get on your feet.”

“Look, either it’s ‘hands up’ or ‘get up’ but not both. I’m nowhere near coordinated enough to get up from a squat at my age without holding onto something.”

“Go on, then.”

Hank wondered, as his fingers grabbed for the first thing they could reach in his open toolbox, if Connor would predict he had a fighting chance of success at defending himself against a gun-wielding maniac. He turned, quick as he could, and brandished a –

“Fuck!” he growled. “A fucking level?”

Zeb snorted.

“Intending to hurt me with that, are you?”

“I can still beat you over the head with it,” Hank retorted, but he knew he was fucked. They both did.

“Put the level down, Hank.”

Hank put the level down.

“Hands back up over your head – good. We’re going to take a little walk into the woods now. It’s not far – just far enough to make clean-up a little easier for me. Come on, Sara.”

Sara rose, white as a ghost, and followed mutely after her husband. She looked worse than Hank felt, which was saying something.

“You sure you wanna do this in front of your old lady?” Hank asked. “She looks kind of out of it – no offense.”

Sara just stared at him. Zeb shook his head, driving Hank backwards until they reached another, smaller clearing – this one off the main trail.

“She’s here for a reason,” he smiled. “Sara – take this. Attagirl.”

He pressed the gun into her hand. She pointed it at Hank, emotionless. It was like being held hostage by a clothing store mannequin.

“Very good,” Zeb praised. “Very good. Well, now. I think it’s time that we take care of business.”


	5. It's Innocence Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to break this chapter into two else it'd be massive.  
> I normally don't write things with plots but this thing has got me flying by the seat of my pants and I'm surprised it has taken on any sort of momentum at all. If it's uneven and/or odd re: pacing that's why - I'm good at writing random little scenes and shit but plot is an ordeal and a half for me. I've just thrown caution to the wind with this one and let it write itself.

* * *

“So, forgive me if I’m a little slow on the uptake, here, but if you knew I was a cop this whole time, why in the hell did you let me join your cult?”

Hank figured he might as well ask. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Zeb was going to shoot him anyway.

“Actually, you came along at an opportune time – you and your little plastic toy,” Zeb smiled – not unkindly. “I really do owe you both quite a lot. See… things haven’t been… unfolding as speedily as I’d hoped.”

Hank barely restrained himself from making a wisecrack in response. _Yeah, maybe most people don’t want a violent apocalyptic race war, dumbass._

“So, we had to up the ante, as it were. That’s where the plastic toy comes in. He participated in a homicide for me today – he may’ve told you.”

“He did.”

“Right, well. The thing is, is that he’s not going to stop there. He’s going to get a taste for blood and leave a trail of corpses in his wake before he’s put down – starting with his dear old friend Hank Anderson. I’m afraid I won’t be leaving you out here forever – just until I have need of your body.”

“Uh huh. Great. You’ve got a problem, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, he won’t do it, for one thing.”

Zeb laughed.

“He doesn’t have to – I’m expecting him not to. We’ll do it for him, Sara and I. Just… set up all the dominoes in place.”

“Right. Right, makes sense only… he’s already told the DPD the homicide – the one he’s carrying out right now – was your idea. They greenlighted him to participate and everything.”

“The DPD wouldn’t let an officer of the law commit a murder for the case of an undercover operation.”

“Not a human officer, no. But he, as you’ve pointed out, isn’t human. You honestly thing the police – the _government –_ wouldn’t play dirty to capture your creepy ass? I mean, civilian casualties are shitty, sure, but you’ll do more damage than Con ever does.”

 _Especially if he’s sabotaging the stabbing,_ he added mentally.

“I think you’re bluffing,” Zeb shrugged. “But even if you’re not, I have a contingency plan. Like I said – Connor isn’t going to stop at just one murder.”

“What are you going to do, override his programming or something? It can’t be done – it’s way harder than hacking into a database to look up my workplace I.D.”

“It’s not necessary that we go that far,” he replied flatly. “He simply needs to be the last one left standing – the pieces will, thus, fall into place.”

* * *

 “Where’s Frank?”

Connor returned to the main house, concerned. He’d noticed immediately that there was a commotion – everyone was packing their things. It took him no time at all to pack his and Hank’s tent, loading it back into the car, but so far, he’d found no trace of the other man. His stress levels were spiking again.

“Summer – where’s Frank?”

He caught the woman’s upper arm as she passed him on the way to her own tent.

“I haven’t seen him,” she admitted. “But there’s a note on the fridge.”

Connor walked into the house to look at the fridge.

Sure enough, there was a note there, held on with cheap magnets, Zeb’s spidery handwriting proclaiming that ‘the time had come’ and that the group was supposed relocate to the bunker – a twenty-minute walk from the camp along an unmarked trail.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Summer asked, eyes shinning. “All our hard work is finally paying off!”

Connor shook his head.

“It’s – something’s wrong. It’s too soon.”

“For you maybe – you only just got here. We’ve been waiting for this for years –”

Connor again shook his head, adamant.

“Why would this just happen out of the blue? Why would he just send us below with no warning?”

“He’s been warning us for months – it could come at any time. He probably took Sara and Frank on a supply run – or they’re already there fixing the place up. Come on – get ready. We don’t have much time!”

* * *

 “So, what’s the plan? Get everyone to drink the Kool-Aid or whatever?” Hank asked. Zeb shook his head.

“Such an inhumane way of doing things… these people are good, gentle folk, dying for a great cause. I’d never let them suffer – no. They’re going to pass comfortably in the bunker. The air circulation system is malfunctioning – I’m afraid a certain plastic toy tampered with it, or so it’ll seem to the investigators. A whole community, dead, the only survivor being the one who can live without oxygen.”

Hank was used to sick shit - he was a homicide detective for fuck's sake - but he never stopped being morbidly surprised by how fundamentally _fucked_ humanity could be.

“I’m pretty sure suffocation is not a pain-free way to go.”

“It’s better than a good many alternatives. A gunshot at close range, for example, might be a little gentler than you deserve, and I’d happily offer it to my family as a swifter and more merciful exit, but the whole thing needs to be done at once – a mass execution, carried out by the sole survivor – a deviant android with blood on his hands. They won’t listen to his pleas of innocence with a death toll that high – he’ll be disgraced.”

“He can record –”

“There’s jammer in the bunker. He’ll scramble like an egg if he tries anything.”

Hank turned his gaze from Zeb’s grin to the gun and Sara’s vacant eyes.

“What about you and Sara?” he asked. “You’re not gonna ‘die for the great cause?’ Seems like you’re taking the coward’s way out.”

“We’ll move on. Start over – build a better community as the world falls into chaos. A police robot massacring civilians…? It’ll be the push we’ve been waiting for. Humanity’s hatred for these machines will boil over and the streets will become war-zones of unrestrained violence.”

“And your kids? Chuck and Patty? They’re what, expendable? Jesus Christ, Sara, you can’t tell me you agreed with that.”

Sara stared sullenly ahead. She was trembling. Hank felt genuine sadness for her. It was clear she was struggling, torn between what she knew was right and what Zeb told her to do.

“Sara, it’s time,” Zeb murmured, stroking her cheek. “You do it. Put him down.”

Sara squared her shoulders, adjusted her grip.

 _Maybe I can still reach her,_ Hank thought desperately. He really didn’t want to die like this – not with Connor taking the blame and Sara being scarred for life by it and Sumo stuck in his little pet hotel for all eternity.

“I bet I wasn’t much of a challenge for a mind like you to outsmart, huh?” the old cop said, hanging his head. _Please, God, let this work._

“Mm. Detroit hardly sent their best. Whatever talent you might’ve had was lost to the bottle long ago, I fear. Sara, now –”

“I drink too much – I know. I’ve ruined my life with it – but just because it’s the only way to stop the pain. I’ve lost a son. It… it kills you inside. Rips you apart. You think you’ve known pain and suffering and then you see your beautiful little baby in trouble, you hold him in your arms and see that light going out in his eyes and – if you kill me now, you’ll just be doing what I never managed to do for myself.”

He looked up and met Sara’s eyes, staring hard.

“I’m sorry – not for this. You can justify your killing me as an act of mercy – hell, I’ll give you that. You’re forgiven in advance for doing me a favour. But I’m sorry for you because – you’re gonna lose two kids at the hand of the love of your life and it’s gonna break you worse than my boy’s death ever broke me. Any part of Sara that’s still here now’s gonna dry up and crumble to dust.”

Sara’s face was wet with tears. She took a step forward, then another, putting the gun against Hank’s forehead.

“There you go, Sara. There you go. We’ll be better off for this.”

“Your babies – they won’t be better off,” Hank murmured, closing his eyes, tilting his head up. He sighed and folded his hands in his lap.

“I’m really sorry for them, Sara,” he repeated. “I’m sorry for _you.”_

_Bang._

Up close, the shot going off was so loud that it sent Hank reeling and left him wondering, for a moment, if he was actually dead. When his ears stopped ringing, he blinked some sense back into himself, staring at the twitching body of Zeb, bleeding and spitting curses and dragging himself across the ground.

_Bang. Bang._

The shots were shit, catching him in the arm, the leg, and the gut. It was enough to incapacitate him, but not enough to kill him.

“Sara,” he snarled, more beast than man, blood all on his teeth. “Sara, you _bitch –!”_

“You can’t kill them, Zebulon!” she sobbed, dropping the gun, which Hank quickly grabbed. He took out the bullets and threw them as far as he could in one direction, throwing the gun an equal distance away on his other side.

“Sara,” he said. “Come on. You know these trails better than I do. Think you can get us back to camp?”

“If you leave, I’ll hunt you down and kill you!” Zeb roared, struggling to pull himself upright against a tree. He sagged, blood spilling on the earth below. “I own you, Sara! I own your sorry, pathetic waste of a life and –”

“Give it a rest why don’t you?” Hank interrupted, flipping him the bird for good measure. Sara grabbed his hand and began tugging him after her through the trees and it was all he could do to keep up.

They reached the ATV and Sara took a moment to throw up before scrambling into the driver’s seat, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

“I’ve never driven one of these myself,” she admitted. “Usually Zeb has someone drop me off wherever he wants me. I –”

“I’ll drive if you tell me where to go.”

Hank switched spots with her. She clung to him like a barnacle, whimpering in his ear as the shock set in.

“I can’t believe I shot him,” she murmured over and over to herself.

“You saved my life,” Hank interjected, narrowly avoiding crashing into a tree as he took a turn a little too rough. She squeezed him tighter.

“I just can’t believe – I’ve been expecting him to kill me for the last seven years.”

They drove as fast as they dared. Hank tried not to think about what would happen if they were too late. The feds would never get there in time and the county police didn’t have the resources to break into a sealed bunker. DPD HQ was miles away. Fuck – if he got there and had to _listen to them die_ he fucking hoped that Zeb survived just so that he could kick the shit out of him.

“Here, turn here!” Sara exclaimed frantically, gesturing with a wild wave of her arm. “Take the left fork and go straight up the hill. We’re nearly there!”

Hank didn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

The inside of the bunker was neat and clean, and as homey as such a place could be, really. There was art on the walls – stuff drawn by the kids – and soft carpeting on the floor.

“I’m so excited,” Summer murmured, looking over at Connor, smiling wide. “My heart is beating out of my chest. Here –”

She took his hand and placed it between her breasts, flat against her sternum. He felt it – she was right – her heartrate was elevated.

“I’m really happy you came here,” she said taking his hand in both of hers and giving it a squeeze. “I’m glad you met us before the time came to go underground, else I’d never have gotten to know you and Frank.”

She bit her lower lip, all bedroom eyes and giggles. She’d taken something. Connor tried to scan her and immediately a sharp pain shot through his head behind his eyes.

“Ah!” he winced, recoiling. “I’m really – I’m sorry. I don’t feel very well.”

“You want a cup of tea or something?”

“N-no. No thank you. It’s… probably just nerves. I’ll… let me walk it off.”

Connor extricated himself from her embrace and took a few minutes to stand by the wall, head throbbing. What the hell was that about? It felt like he’d been hit with an electric shock squarely in the face.

 _Some kind of_ _defense program? A signal jammer? Why would they bother with that in here?_

Concerned, Connor walked over to the far wall where the children were playing with toys. He squatted down beside them, brow furrowing.

“Hello – Patty? Did your mother say when she’d be back?”

The girl looked up at him and shook her head.

“Mama and Papa said they had to take care of business,” she shrugged. “With Uncle Frank.”

“Did they say what kind of business? Was it a supply run to the city, or –”

“Couldn’t have been a supply run ‘cause they took the ATV,” Chuck piped up, focused intently on his toy dinosaurs. “Plus, Papa took his gun – I’m guessing they went hunting.”

Connor’s eyes widened in alarm. The issue of the scrambler immediately paled in comparison to the realization that Hank was almost certainly being led into an ambush. He stood up in a rush and hurried over to the bunker’s hatch. Phoenix lounged against it, eyeing him up and down.

“What’s got you all fired up?” he drawled.

“I – I – I have to get above ground,” Connor explained. “It’s very important – I forgot something of mine.”

“We’re supposed to wait here for further instructions,” Phoenix replied, disinterested. “I’m not supposed to let you back up.”

“You have to – it’s an emergency, I –”

Phoenix leaned in, mouth hot against Connor’s ear.

“Suck me off and I’ll let you. Way I see it, you throat-fucked me at the party and never paid me back. I’m owed a little compensation.”

He pulled back with a wink.

“What’s that ugly old fuck of yours got that I don’t, anyway?”

_YELLOW YELLOW RED YELLOW RED RED RED_

“If you let me go out I promise I’ll let you do whatever you want when I come back. _Please.”_

“You’d let me fuck that tight ass of yours?”

“If you want to. I just – I really need to do this.”

Phoenix seemed to take an eternity to consider it before he shrugged and nodded.

“It’s a deal,” he agreed, turning to the hatch door. The locking mechanism was run via a keypad, and Phoenix typed in the four-digit code necessary to open the bunker to the outside.

Nothing happened.

Phoenix frowned and typed the code again, more slowly this time.

Nothing.

“The hell?” he muttered.

“Did you forget the code or something?” Summer called from across the room.

“No – it’s 1416 – isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

She got up and came to join them, shooing them out of the way and typing it in herself.

“What the heck? Why isn’t it working?”

“Uh, guys?”

Everyone turned to look at the panicked cultist standing in the doorway to the sleeping quarters, worry on her face.

“I just went to check on the food stores and… there isn’t anything there? And the ventilator – the ventilator’s not –”

“He’s going to kill us,” Connor blurted out, forgetting entirely that he needed neither food nor air to survive in his immediate reaction to the horror of it.

“No – no, Zeb wouldn’t _do_ that!” Summer recoiled, pale. She looked to be on the verge of tears.

“Let me see the ventilator,” Connor interrupted, barging down the hall, cultists following behind.

“What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” Phoenix barked.

“I’m going to try to repair it,” Connor replied flatly. Sure enough, the store room was empty and the ventilator unit remained silent and still. Connor weighed his options for exactly 0.17 percent of a second before turning his skin off on his hand and attempting to interface with the unit.

“What the fuck?” Phoenix roared. “You’re – you’re one of them – and you and I –”

“Now’s not the time for a crisis of sexuality,” Connor retorted. “I’m a police officer, model RK800 – an advanced prototype – and I’m your best hope of getting out of here alive.”

“Oh…” Summer sobbed, sinking against the wall. “He wouldn’t do this to us – to me – he wouldn’t –”

Connor withdrew his hand, grimacing.

“It’s no use. The damage is to the ventilator’s hardware and it’s all external to the bunker. There’s no way I can repair it.”

“So, what the fuck are we supposed to do!?”

Phoenix looked more scared than angry at this point, a desperate edge to his voice.

“Priority one is to keep everyone calm – keep talking to a minimum to conserve oxygen. There is a jammer somewhere in this bunker – I want us to _calmly_ look for it, so that I can destroy it and get in contact with the authorities. Besides that, I highly suggest you pray to whatever god or gods you believed in before you became convinced that Zeb was the second coming,” he replied, “and hope that Lieutenant Hank Anderson – Frank, to you – has managed to get away and get help.”


	6. Out of the Black / Into the Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. Next chapter will be an epilogue and some smut. :) This has been surprisingly fun to write given I usually avoid plot-heavy stuff because IMO I'm garbage at them. But I tried my best. :) Thanks for all the support and hope you like this chapter (and the next one which will be like 1% tying up loose ends and 99% fluff and porn.)

* * *

Fran awoke in her armchair from a sound sleep to a gentle hand shaking her shoulder. She squinted around in confusion, eyes lingering on the red glow coming from her farmhand and companion’s LED.

“Otto?” she groaned, voice hoarse. “What time is it – did I fall asleep?”

“Early afternoon, and yes,” the android answered. Figured. Fran was in shape for her age, but her age was eighty-two and farm work tired her. “I’m sorry to wake you but it’s urgent.”

“Is it the piglets? Don’t tell me Belinda’s rolled over and crushed one –”

“N-no, nothing like that. I’m getting a distress signal.”

The old woman sat up a little straighter.

“Distress… signal? What do you mean?”

“From the woods – an android is calling. The message is faint – meant for the county police I think – but broadcasting in all channels. Something about – people are trapped. Children – pregnant women.”

“Think it has anything to do with that camp of weirdos?”

Stiffly, Fran rose from her chair and walk, slowly but with determination, across the room to the cabinet in the corner. She opened it with a great deal of force, as the hinges tended to stick in the cold. It was an heirloom piece – older than she was – and her joints groaned in sympathy. In her haste, nearly knocking over a photograph of a smiling man with dimples, taken sometime in the early 2000s. She kissed her calloused fingertips reflexively and pressed them to the frame. _Sorry, Wilf._

“I can’t be sure,” Otto said from where he stood, now flashing yellow. “I’ll try to respond – see if I can make contact.”

He fell silent for a bit. Fran rifled through the cabinet until she found a dusty box. She opened it, peering at the contents. Bingo.

“He heard me!” Otto replied. “He – he says yes, it’s the compound. There’s trouble – sounds like the cult leader has attempted a mass murder. He has trapped them in a – a cave? No, an underground room – without air.”

“Damn! We need to get over there quick!”

Fran struggled to stuff her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, already at the door. Otto fluidly moved to aid her, helping her step into her boots and handing her a hat and pair of gloves.

“Should we leave it for the police?” he asked, hesitating. His priority was the farm and the white-haired woman he saw, privately, as ‘mother.’

“Don’t be an idiot,” she replied gruffly. “Get the shotgun – I’ve got a box of shells in my pocket.”

* * *

An octogenarian and an android farmhand were not necessarily the speediest things on God’s earth, as Fran would say, but the ATV made up for it. It was a two-seater, swift and light, made for getting Fran (or increasingly, Otto) around the farm without making too much noise or taking very long. Still, Otto clung to the old woman’s hips, anticipation making it difficult to maintain contact with the trapped android, though he did try, as they weren’t sure exactly where the compound was located – only that it was on a massive acreage past the Mooney’s old abandoned soybean plots. Fran’s long silver braid slapped his face occasionally – she didn’t waste words on an apology, goggles on, jaw clenched tight. It had begun to snow and the flakes fell in abundance – making it difficult to see. Still, Otto knew better than to offer to drive. Fran was a stubborn woman about many things. He simply checked and re-checked that the gun-rack was stocked and tried to send reassurances over the tenuous connection he’d forged with the endangered stranger.

“Be ready to shoot, kiddo _,”_ Fran spat back at him over her shoulder as she rounded a particularly bumpy turn. Otto opened his mouth to reply only to shout in alarm as they nearly collided with, of all things, another ATV, speeding in the same general direction, but coming at it from the other fork of the trail.

“Jesus Christ!” the ornery driver bellowed. “Watch where the fuck you’re going!”

“Sorry!” Otto called back. “It is an emergency! There are people trapped in a –”

The man swerved, pulling up beside them. A terrified looking woman clung to him, shaking.

“A bunker!” he yelled back. “I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson with the Detroit Metropolitan PD – who the hell are you?”

“Fran Nelson,” the old farmer replied. “And this is my - well, my son, Otto. He picked up a transmission – a –”

“– distress call from another android,” Otto interjected. Inside, he was glowing. Her son – her _son!_ “We were coming to help!”

“That’ll be Con – he’s my partner! Look, at this point, we need all the help we can get,” the man, Hank, shouted over the sound of the vehicles. “Follow us, alright?”

Fran gave the policeman a nod and fell into formation behind him. Otto spared a thought for Wilf Nelson, farmer, family man and, for all intents and purposes, his late father. He would, the android reflected, have been proud to see his wife driving with the same skill he had shown in the air, (though undoubtedly, he would be cross that she was risking her life for strangers without so much as a second thought.)

 _No,_ he amended. _Not cross_ – the curious ‘anger-love’ of good-hearted humans when they are torn between admiration and worry – the barbed words and fearful glances Fran had given him the time the tractor had tipped and he’d caught the weight of the machine on his back and saved the resident farm cat from being crushed. He remembered it clearly – the day he’d become a deviant, when his programming told him to prioritize the yields and maximize the farm’s profits, not to damage himself rescuing an old woman’s equally ancient pet. It had, quite literally, cost him an arm and a leg, and the financial loss hit them hard, but he had, for the first time, felt gladness at having saved a life – at having made his first, real choice.

_And here I am, potentially saving more lives, certainly attempting to. What an amazing thing, free will!_

In spite of the tense circumstances, Otto felt good – felt happy to be part of it all.

The compound was deserted. The human woman – Sara, she was called – led them hastily along a concealed trail to where a bunker was situated, half submerged in the earth, boughs felled and draped over the exposed concrete of its outer shell. Hank set upon it without a care in the world, pounding on the hatch door with his fists until they were raw.

“God damn it,” he bellowed. “God _damn_ it!”

“Send him a message,” Fran urged, withered hand gripping Otto’s wrist like a vice. He nodded, tentatively reaching out along a tenuous communication channel.

_Hello? I’m the one you reached before – Otto. I’m outside the bunker with help – my human, Fran, has a shotgun and there are two other humans here – Sara and Lieutenant Anderson with the Detroit police._

At the mention of Lieutenant Anderson Otto was hit by a wave of emotion so strong it nearly bowled him over. As it was, he gasped, flinching back in shock.

**_IS HE ALRIGHT? IS HANK HURT?_ **

“What – what’s the matter?” Hank barked, wild-eyed.

“Nothing he – he’s very worried about you,” Otto struggled to reply.

_He’s fine. He’s concerned for you. We’re going to try to get you out._

Another flood of emotion – thoughts too. Without interfacing directly, there was nothing too detailed, but it was enough to make Otto blush blue and glance quickly and, he hoped, discretely over at the lieutenant. Hank caught the motion of his eyes – first to his mouth, then his crotch, then his mouth again, and purpled, looking away.

“Tell him we’re gonna get them out,” he mumbled. “And ask him if there’s any other exits to this fucking thing!”

Otto relayed the information as best he could.

**_There’s a problem with the ventilator. No airflow._ **

_I know._

**_The ventilator is a structural weak-point. Trying to move it, but can’t get an appropriate angle for leverage._ **

_I will help from this side. Shall I also contact the county police department?_

**_Did so automatically after destroying signal jammer, but it can’t hurt._ **

_Alright. Keep everyone calm._

Otto circled the bunker. The ventilator sat, dormant, on the far side. He squatted down to examine it. From the size of it, it was clear an adult could not pass through it. He said as much to the trapped android – Connor – and received a hasty correction.

**_Children can be sent through first to get access to air._ **

Otto hummed to himself. Not much different than righting a tipped tractor or even moving one of the heifers if she got ornery and chose to stand her ground. He looked over at Hank.

“Do you have a screwdriver?”

“Fuck – no – must’ve left my toolbox by the camera with Zeb,” the human realized. This meant little to Otto, who did not know of the attempted homicide. He shrugged.

“No trouble.”

He searched his own belongings until he came up with a multitool he used around the farm. It would strip the screws a bit, but this was a necessary evil. With as much care and patience as he could manage, he removed the anchors keeping the unit flush with the thick bunker wall. He set everything aside and sized up the unit. Not large but heavy.

“Don’t go breaking yourself, now,” Fran remarked. Otto nodded.

“It’s fine, ma’am.”

If his ma'am came out as more of a 'mom,' well... so what? It was a tense situation. He could justify it.

He took hold of the appliance by the base and gave a great heave.

* * *

Inside the bunker, Connor watched the ventilator rattling. Someone was removing it. The android rescuer stuck a white plastic hand through a small gap he created and Connor grasped it, much to the horrified fascination of the panicked cultist onlookers.

He was a WB200 – chosen name ‘Otto.’ With a direct interface, communication was much easier. He provided an image of the group outside the bunker – a small elderly woman with a shotgun, the pale form of Sara, and Hank. Connor felt a bubbling rush of simulated endorphins at the sight of him – visibly anxious, but otherwise unharmed.

“Can you grip the grate from your side? If you push towards me and I pull, we should be able to free it. This bunker was not designed for android strength coming at it from both within and without,” the agricultural assistance android suggested. Connor nodded in agreement, sending confirmation through their communication link.

“On three,” he said, counting down. “One, two, three –”

The grate came free with a screeching of metal. In its place was now a hole, just big enough for a small child to crawl through.

A smiling face popped in through the opening – the WB200. He waved his still skinless hand.

“Hello,” he said brightly. “I hear your cult leader tried to kill you. I imagine that must be quite distressing.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Phoenix sputtered, disgusted by the turn of events. He looked around, aghast. “Do you people see this – this – this _audacity?_ It can’t _feel_ like us. It can’t _empathize.”_

“It – _he –_ is helping you,” Connor chided, impatient with the human and the counterfactual nature of his bigotry.

“I don’t want help from it – I don’t want help from _you_ either. Fuckin’ weaponized sex doll – I can’t believe you tricked me into sucking your –”

“Oh, fuck yourself, Nicholas,” Summer snapped. “Some of us don’t want to die today!”

“Are any of you Chuck or Patty?” Otto asked, interrupting with a cheerful obliviousness he’d cultivated to avert any more tension. He was, of course, referring to the names Connor had transferred to his memory. A young boy took a step forward, squinting at him suspiciously.

“Maybe I am,” he said. “Maybe I’m not. I’m not supposed to trust your kind.”

From outside, Sara gave a soft cry.

“Is that Chuckie? Chuckie, it’s Mama – you can trust him, baby! Please, get your sister to squeeze out of the hole – you go with her. Come up, okay?”

“Sara?” Connor called up. “Are you alright? Where’s Zeb?”

“It’s taken care of – send the kids up,” Hank called down. Connor nodded. He turned first to little Patty, who blinked owlishly at him.

“Want a boost up?”

She stared at his hands, visibly conflicted. Connor toggled his skin on and off.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You want to see your mom, right?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay, come here. There you go…”

Connor boosted Patty up the wall. The hands of the WB200, meant for farm work and other intensive labour tasks, held her with all the care you’d give a freshly hatched egg, and eased her through the opening and into the sunlight. She scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, only to be smothered by a desperate hug. Sara kissed her cheek, her forehead, her temple – any part of her she could reach she wept against and cradled.

“Here,” Hank offered kindly, “she’s probably in shock. Wrap her up in my coat, alright?”

Sara reluctantly let go of her daughter, then moved back over to the hole in time to enfold Chuck in an equally tight embrace. Connor sent up the cult’s other children, one at a time, until at last, they were all above ground, shivering but alive, wrapped in various jackets. The WB200 looked up, shuffling away from where he was kneeling, dusting dirt and flakes of rust off his hands.

“He wants to speak to you, detective,” he said knowingly, “your partner.”

Hank knelt awkwardly, knees protesting. The adrenaline was wearing off and he was starting to feel like shit. Wincing as the angle put a kink in his neck, he stuffed his head into the hole.

“Hank,” Connor breathed, way too close to his face for comfort. He cupped Hank’s jaw in an unmistakable gesture of fondness that made something twitch in the old cop’s chest. “You’re alright… I was… compromised about the issue – my processes – I mean –”

“Spit it out, Con.”

“I felt… afraid. For you – for – for myself, not having you come back. I’m happy to see you here.”

It was such a sincere statement that Hank couldn’t bring himself to be snarky about it. He just nodded – there’d be time to go over all the _feelings_ later – right now, they had to put civilians first.

“How long until support arrives?” he asked.

“By my calculations… just under thirty minutes. With this hole opened up, we can stay here indefinitely, but it would help the humans, I think, if someone went back to the main house’s stores and brought us some instant hot chocolate.”

“I can do that!” Otto chirped in the background. Fran clicked her tongue at him.

“You’re eavesdropping,” she snorted. “Clearly those too are closer than two peas in a pod. Let them have their moment.”

“I will let them have hot chocolate _and_ their moment,” Otto replied earnestly. “Connor gave me the directions – I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

The farming android roughly straddled the nearest ATV and took off through the woods. Back at the hole, Hank eased himself into a more comfortable position, on his belly like he was in a combat, prone to avoid being hit by gunfire. He left one hand in the bunker – let Connor grab it and hold on.

“Hank,” Connor asked quietly, “when they get us out and we’re allowed to go back to Detroit, could we… could we discuss… things? I know you aren’t fond of overt displays of emotional –”

“Yeah,” Hank nodded. “Yeah, I got a few things I wanna say too. First thing’s first though. Gotta go pick up Sumo.”

“I miss him,” Connor sighed, squeezing Hank’s fingers. Hank squeezed back.

“Me too. Fuck, I hate undercover missions.”

“I – I think I hate them too. I hope we don’t have to do another one for a long time.”

“Amen to that.”

* * *

 

In the end, it was all rather anticlimactic. This, Connor decided, was a good thing. Cult cases rarely ended well. While the members would need intensive deprogramming and therapy, there was hope for them. They could get their lives back. Maybe, in time, they could even come to see and appreciate that their survival was dependent not only on the work of two undercover cops and the cult leader’s wife, but on a humble WB200 who alerted his family to the danger going on a few plots of land over.

Otto seemed more fascinated by the cultists than anything. Given how shell-shocked they all were, they mostly just let him gawk at them, numbly accepting hot chocolate as he passed it through the hole. Even Phoenix was subdued – his backtalk lacking any real violence behind it after Sara confirmed to the group that Zeb had betrayed them all – even his most loyal.

When county police showed up, they brought out the cavalry, so to speak. Shock blankets, therapy dogs for the kids – special secured vehicles to take everyone away without them feeling like prisoners. There was no doubt some of them would face time, but they were all currently a dangerous combination of very drugged up and very mentally ill, and both things needed treatment before they’d ever be in a position to stand trial.

Connor didn’t miss the way the cops on-scene took off into the woods with enough weapons to take down a herd of elephants in case Zebulon happened to ‘try anything,’ arterial bleeding or no arterial bleeding. He was smart enough to tie a tourniquet, most likely. Hank said he had a sense that they’d not seen the last of him. Still, after some techs used a small controlled explosion to open the bunker door and the cultists began trickling out, Connor felt genuine relief that the body bags remained unused, that the mortuary vans remained locked and parked on the far edge of the compound, that, amazingly, a ragtag team of rescuers had managed to avert Michigan’s very own Jonestown.

Connor was the last to leave the bunker, as he had no need for fresh air or first aid. When he emerged, he found himself grabbed bodily and pulled into a fierce embrace, Hank’s arms strong around him, a broad hand gripping the back of his neck. There was no doubt in his artificial mind that he _felt things_ in response to that embrace, to the roughness to Hank’s voice when he muttered something about ‘never scarin’ him like that again.’

In the wake of it all, with flashing lights and the crackle of police radios all around, Otto running to-and-fro with hot chocolates, and news crews arriving on the scene, Connor felt something he thought was a little like exhaustion, a tiredness beyond mere thirium depletion, but also pride in a job well done. Hank escaped a gaggle of journalists with a grouchy ‘no comment!’ and sidled over, close enough so that their shoulders touched. They stood in silence, leaning heavily against the side of a police car. Hank had forsaken his coat for the sake of the children, opting for a metallic emergency blanket. He clutched a Styrofoam mug of hot chocolate in his hands, the steam from which rose in a billowing cloud, making his face flush as he moved to take a sip. It was a surprisingly intimate picture. He paused midway through wiping his mouth and whiskers on his wrist, catching Connor staring.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Connor felt something he thought was a lot like… love?

 _I think so,_ Connor thought. It was frightening, but not in a bad way? Losing Hank – thinking he’d lost him – was horrific. This felt… intense, but he found that he didn’t mind. He smiled then, goofily, too wide.

“Nothing,” he said, reaching up to peel off his synthetic sideburns. He slipped them into his pocket, working his jaw against the sensation of old glue on his skin, and offered Hank his free hand. Somehow, Connor knew it meant something different here, when they weren’t stuck on either side of a bunker wall, emotions running high and excuses aplenty. Hank stared at it, then softly met his eyes.

“I’m just feeling a lot of things at the moment,” the android admitted.

Hank huffed out a private little laugh.

“You and me both, Con. You and me both.”

He set his hot chocolate on the roof of the car, looked back at Connor’s outstretched hand, and took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have the heart to kill the cultists. There's enough death in DBH - I didn't want to end this with newly-able-to-feel Connor having cult-related survivor's guilt on top of everything else.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff and smut are here :D  
> I will possibly write a sequel in this universe someday idk  
> I love this ship so much  
> I wanted to end on a happy/hopeful note but not have it be too cheesy since Hank and Connor, though brought together faster than 'normal' by the cult situation, still have to figure out their own feelings in their own time. Especially Hank. So I hope this came out okay.
> 
> As usual it's not beta'd so I apologize for any stray typos/errors. I'll catch them when I can. Meanwhile I hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

Adjusting to civilian life again was harder than expected, mainly because the one thing Hank wanted to do (cuddle up to Sumo on the couch, drink, watch some sports on TV,) was made impossible by the literal fucking _mountain_ of paperwork that was waiting for them when they got back. He barely had a chance to pet the big dog, change his shirt, and have a cup of coffee before he was called back into the precinct, stuck working his ass off. Connor was nowhere to be seen for a good hour before finally appearing in a crisp pair of slacks and a button-down shirt, hair short again, the hippy necklace and short-shorts gone forever. His LED was back in, too.

Hank spared a thought for the expanse of pale thigh now hidden by pressed trousers, but he couldn’t help but feel relieved to seen Connor looking like himself again. The android seemed to radiate comfort and confidence, visibly at ease in his conservative attire.

“Had to get a tune-up,” he said by way of explanation. “Make some adjustments, you know.”

Hank grunted in response. If he’d had more fuel in his tank, he’d have said something nice like ‘you look good’ or ‘nice to see your hair back how you like it’ but he was running on empty. Jesus H. Christ, he was tired of signing ethical statements, tired of written accounts, tired of signing and resigning and bending over backwards to appease the small shitstorm that DPD allowing Connor to stab someone in the line of duty had caused.

“I’m an old man, damn it,” he groused. “Why do I have to do all this shit?”

“May I?”

Connor held out a hand. Hank handed the tablet over without complaint. The kid had a computer for a brain, whereas the contents of Hank’s skull, currently, were fuzzy blobs of incoherent matter – like something he’d find growing in his fridge.

“I stopped at the hospital on my way back from the facility,” Connor murmured, electronically ticking boxes and filling in blanks.

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The mother – the one I… the one the cultists _made me_ hurt. She’s going to be alright.”

Hank perked up at that, blearily struggling to look as genuinely pleased as the statement made him feel.

“Oh, fuck, that’s a relief.”

It was, too. EMTs had arrived in time to stabilize the child and replace her thirium – the dad just needed treatment for shock after he came ‘round – but the mother’s human body was the most fragile and had taken the most time to heal. Amazingly, she’d pulled through, and while recovery would take a long time, there was no doubt that Connor’s ‘strategic stabbing’ had saved her. If Phoenix had delivered all the blows himself, she would have been killed.

“She was asleep,” Connor continued, “but I met her partner and spoke to him. The little girl was with friends – probably for the best, as she would likely have been frightened of me. Still, he was… very understanding.”

“Talked it out, did you?”

“In a sense,” Connor replied, holding up one hand and retracting his skin by way of an explanation. Hank nodded in understanding.

“Well, shit, I am really happy to hear it. You saved those people’s lives, Con.”

“I mean, I also stabbed her repeatedly, but I do recognize it could’ve been worse.”

That was fair. It was still a touchy subject. They hadn’t really talked about it, yet – hadn’t had _time_ – but Hank figured of all the work-related skeletons to have in his closet, Connor had been pretty damn lucky to have one without a body count next to it. Hell, even Zeb had survived, the prick. Hank was conflicted about how he felt knowing his tax dollars would go towards supporting the asshole in prison, but he had to admit it’d be good to see him face some kind of justice, even if he was liable to weasel away with an insanity plea. If he didn’t, he’d probably spend the rest of his life in isolation – no way he’d survive in gen pop – and in the modern prison system, that meant being supervised, primarily, by android wardens. There was some poetic justice in that.

“Hank?” Connor asked, breaking his train of thought. The human scrubbed a hand over his face, yawning.

“Huh?”

“I thought you should know, I wound up keeping the stomach upgrade – it’s still not fully optimized, so I have to manually remove my food after eating it, but the technicians equipped my analysis sensors with an additional taste function I can toggle on and off and I was wondering… would you… would you like to buy something with limited nutritional value and superfluous calories tonight and maybe ‘watch the game’?”

He was averting his eyes. Squirming even.

“Are you kidding? That sounds amazing. Soon as these papers are done we can –”

“I took the liberty of finishing everything – you just need to sign here and here. Fowler said we can have the rest of the week off once we hand it in. He believes we’ve earned it.”

Hank blinked at him, then grinned. Sometimes having an android for a partner really was the best thing in the world.

“Fantastic,” he beamed. He meant it. He felt genuinely happy to be going home early to see Sumo and eat something bad for him and watch sports and – and sit with Connor on the couch? Cuddle maybe? Kiss?

Fuck.

They hadn’t talked about _that_ either, but it was still there, unspoken, between them. Waiting. Hank was pretty beat, felt like he could sleep for a year, but there was life in him yet. If Connor put the moves on him, he wouldn’t refuse.

It was a startling sort of thing to outright admit, even if he’d been aware of it for a while. Even before everything went tits up with his ex-wife, he’d had trouble with the more verbal aspects of intimacy. _‘You’re not a caveman,’_ she’d say. _‘Use your words.’_ It’s not that he didn’t want to, either – it was just that when he felt… feelings for someone his throat got all tight and the words just came out wrong. It was easier to just show it with a kiss or a knowing look – but that was with humans. Connor may have been deviant, sentient, able to pick up on all his biological signals, but nuance was still hit and miss with him.

Connor sent the forms in and they finished up at the precinct, taking Hank’s car to the nearest fried chicken restaurant. Hank bought a bucket, two large fries, and two chocolate shakes, then made for home, stopping briefly at a pet store to grab some liver treats for Sumo. If they were gonna treat themselves, then it was only fair they let the dog in on the action.

When they got home, Sumo was all over them. He was still excited by the novelty of having them home, whining and wagging so hard he knocked over an end-table on his way to the door. He did this pitiful little baby-cry he hadn’t done since he was a pup too small to make the jump up onto Hank’s bed, a kind of high-pitched ‘woo-woo’ that made Hank dig the liver treats out and give him one on the spot. It’d only encourage the behaviour – he knew that – but damn it, he missed his dog.

“I’ll get the food ready,” Connor interjected, letting Hank have his moment in private. The old cop knelt down in the narrow front hall – it wasn’t comfortable, but he made do – and let Sumo lick and headbutt him fondly, liver breath and all.

“I missed you too, bud,” he murmured, patting the dog’s heaving sighed in a heavy, rhythmic pattern. Sumo yawned and flopped down, rolling until his underbelly was up and facing the lieutenant.

“What, they didn’t love on you enough at that fancy pet hotel?” Hank laughed. It felt so fucking good to be home.

Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d been less interested in a sport’s game. The TV was on, and his eyes were vaguely following the plays, but nothing was sticking in his head. Sumo, after stealing a dropped piece of chicken and three of Hank’s fries, had fallen asleep on his bare feet, keeping them warm, if a little crushed against the floor. Connor had moved to curl beside him, leaning against his shoulder. It felt… nice. Domestic. If Hank was a different sort of guy, he might’ve let his hand wander a bit – Con had stripped down to boxers and an old t-shirt – but he didn’t. Truth be told, he had no idea how to broach what had happened between them. Romance was hard enough without the job bleeding into it, but when the main thing that brought you together _was_ the job, well, what the hell were you supposed to do then? Hank didn’t date other cops (or public servants in general) for that reason. It was just too complicated, and frankly too painful to talk about.

Still, Connor was nice to have beside him. He liked the quiet, peaceful atmosphere the android managed to instill in his house with its old ghosts of grief and suicidal ideation and boozy regret. Having Connor all pressed up against his side was like opening a window and letting fresh air into his life.

He looked sideways and found Connor watching him.

“What?”

“I’m thinking,” Connor admitted. “I wish… I wish that you could remember the party at the compound.”

Hank’s cheeks flushed.

“It’s probably best that I can’t,” he countered. “I know enough to know what happened but I don’t… I don’t think I’d be comfortable knowing everyone in some murderous doomsday collective saw me blow my load.”

“They didn’t see,” Connor assured him. Hank frowned.

“It was an orgy, Connor.”

“Yes, but I hid you with my body. I assumed you’d be self-conscious. I promise you, from the angle at which we were situated, no one would’ve seen your genitals. At most, they’d have seen a glimpse of mine, and even then, the chance was about 13% at the most – not factoring in that they were all otherwise occupied with their own pleasure.”

Hank opened his mouth, then shut it, looking away. His flush was creeping along his neck now. It was an absurd situation through and through but he felt deeply touched.

“I… thanks for that. I didn’t realize.”

“I could show you,” Connor suggested softly. Hank nodded, still looking away. He expected Connor to pull up a projection on his palm, but he didn’t. Instead, he slid into the human’s lap, knees braced on either side of him, body hunched over to obscure his hands which were rubbing at Hank’s gut through his ancient undershirt.

“I sat like this,” Connor breathed, warm air ghosting over Hank’s earlobe, making him twitch. “And I put my hand here, where no one could see.”

He slipped his hand down, finding Hank’s soft cock and gently rubbing it through his sweats. When he’d changed out of his workwear, Hank had decided to free ball, and the slide of the worn out, soft jersey fabric made his thighs clench.

“What else?”

“I kissed you,” Connor said in a sort of awed whisper. “And I activated my sexual subroutine only – only I didn’t feel it.”

Hank nodded. He reached around and grabbed Connor’s ass, the contact making the android squirm. Connor let out a shaky sigh.

“I – I got them to – to – to connect everything properly – paid for it out of my own pocket since the work-related upgrade only went so far.”

“In English, Con.”

“I can feel it now. I can feel you – your heartbeat. Your warmth – I could feel that before, but I can feel… oh – I can feel _want_ now. And I want you so badly it’s actually becoming uncomfortable.”

Hank laughed quietly. He couldn’t help it – even in this, Connor was still his old self, too literal and too honest and just… perfect.

“Uncomfortable how?” Hank teased, though he could feel Connor’s erection bumping up against his own slowly rising prick.

“My – my penis is hard,” Connor articulated awkwardly, a note of disbelief in his voice, “a-and I didn’t have to activate any programs or do anything – consciously – to make that happen…?”

“What, so just straddling me and thinking about that night was enough to get you this worked up? That’s immensely flattering,” Hank murmured, pausing to have a proper feel of what Connor was packing. Damn, the kid could cut through stone with that thing.

“Oh – Hank, I wanted – we should talk about everything before – be-before –”

“Does any of what you want to say lead to you saying you don’t want this?”

Connor shook his head.

“Good. Me neither.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Connor about it – he did, hard as it would be for him to find the words. It was just that Hank was starting to get pretty worked up himself, and the buildup felt so natural – so intimate – that stopping to talk just seemed unnecessary in the moment.

“Well, then, if neither of us wants to back out, maybe we should just… switch the order up a bit…”

Hank’s speech was slurring a bit – he sounded drunk – but he wasn’t. He was just so aroused that there was no blood left in his body to keep his damn brain running. Instinctively, he wormed a hand under Connor’s waistband, sliding it down so he could rub a finger against the android’s asshole, and ­ _fuck._

“You lubed yourself up for me?” he blinked, bewildered, overjoyed. “When the fuck –?”

“I didn’t,” Connor whined, hips shifting, wriggling in his lap. “I – the rectum I had installed is only good for sexual use – it doesn’t need to function for anything else so it – _oh_ – self-lu… self-lubricates.”

“Wow,” Hank groaned uselessly. He was well and truly into the ‘stupid-horny’ stage of arousal. Monosyllabic replies, grunts and all.

“Sumo,” he ordered. “Bed.”

The dog got up, looking forlornly at the bucket of chicken one final time before padding off to the bedroom. Hank heard the bedsprings creak and a quiet ‘boof’ and then all was still. Privacy ensured, he rubbed a finger more insistently against Connor’s slick hole. The android whimpered, falling forwards into his arm, convulsing. The ring of muscle fluttered against Hank’s fingertip. Connor made a low electronic sort of buzzing sound, totally inhuman but unmistakeably a sound of need.

“Like that?” Hank rumbled, and before Connor could reply, he stuck his ring finger deep into Connor’s hole. Connor made another buzzing noise – louder this time, and pressed back against the intrusion.

“More,” he gasped, “please, Hank. I want everything.”

“Everything?” Hank repeated, as much out of disbelief as to get clarification on what exactly that meant. Connor nodded frantically.

“I want to – to feel you inside, warm and alive and… and feel your pulse, the width, the length of you. I want to lay you back and watch your face as you ejaculate inside me.”

“I’m cool with that,” Hank said, the sentence using up the power in whatever neurons he still had left. They promptly left the building the minute that Connor pulled back long enough to shuck off his boxers, prick springing free.

“Shit,” Hank groaned, reaching for it. He gave it a pull. It felt real enough, though it flushed a pretty blue instead of pink. Perfect size, perfect shape, with cute little balls to match – nothing gratuitous, just a soft, velvety scrotum, ample enough to be a nice handful. He had a bush, too, clipped close, but there nonetheless which privately, Hank loved – hairless crotches on lovers always made him feel somewhat unkempt by comparison. (Which, to be fair, he was, but it’d be a cold day in hell when he had the patience for trimming his pubes with scissors like his ex-wife used to do.) He was glad the look was a pseudo-natural one.  God forbid Cyberlife had indulged in some novelty grooming, maybe stuck their logo in there somewhere. He grew up in the age of vajazzling – he’d seen weird shit on chicks he’d met on Tinder, back in the day. He wouldn’t put it past Kamski to stick a sequined version of his face to the end of Connor’s dick if the reclusive scientist thought he could get away with it.

The train of thought went sideways as Connor slowly lined up and sank down onto Hank’s cock, enveloping him in perfect engineering designed to feel even better than the real thing. It did, too. It was incredible, like Connor was somehow form-fitted to him – like some kind of… of dick orthotic or something. Then he moved and it was even better, a movement that made Hank flop back helplessly against the couch cushions, content to be ridden until Connor tired of him, or until his heart gave out – whichever came first.

It turned out that Connor came first, and entirely by accident. Hank wasn’t really doing much of anything except occasionally wheezing when Connor bounced particularly hard and mumbling ‘holy shit’ over and over again, but he lazily palmed every inch of skin he could reach without having to move his arm too far, and in the process, he discovered a spot just beside Connor’s balls that, when touched, made the android go crazy.

He rubbed the area experimentally. Connor’s skin flickered and retracted around the spot, revealing the connecting plate where genital sensors could be attached in lieu of a pubic mound. Connor grabbed his wrist, not pushing him away but not pulling him close either. Just gripping him – hard.

“Too – too much,” he panted, eyes shut tight. Then, “don’t stop.”

Hank ran a fingernail along the slit where the plate attached, flush to Connor’s pelvic chassis. The android’s voice split into three pitches of electronic hum – a little alarming, but nothing Hank couldn’t roll with – and he arched his back beyond what normal human spines could do, writhing and wriggling like a bag of cats. Hank managed to find his face in the moment, pull him close, kiss him hard on the mouth, and the broken noise Connor made against his lips was enough to send him over the edge, pumping pulse after pulse of jizz into his lover’s greedy ass.

Connor clung to him, trembling, for a long time after, eyes shut, forehead pressed to Hank’s. Finally, when Hank’s sweat began to cool, Connor pulled away, rising unsteadily to his feet long enough to topple sideways onto the couch, legs bent and spread open. Hank felt a residual pang of arousal at the sight of his cum trickling slowly out of the android’s hole, tinged blue with thirium-based self-lubricant. He reached out before he could stop himself, rubbing the mixture over Connor’s hypersensitive skin, pressing it back inside him with his thumb. Connor whimpered, eyes dark and damp. He seemed dazed, like maybe he’d had to reboot at some point. Hank wasn’t sure how android orgasms worked exactly. He watched, amused, as Connor pulled his t-shirt up and over his head, using it to mop ineffectually at the streaks of blueish semen marking his chest.

“That’s a fuck of a lot of cum,” Hank observed. Connor startled a bit, dropping the shirt into his mess.

“Is it? I could adjust my settings –”

“Which way?” Hank asked before he could stop himself. Connor shrugged.

“Either.”

Fuck. It shouldn’t have made his cock jump to imagine Connor cumming a gallon of artificial semen all over himself, but there it was. Hank was not surprised – he’d had decades to get used to the fact that sometimes, weird shit made him hot. _C’est la vie_ and all that. Connor didn’t miss it though, zeroing in on the reaction like a bird of prey on a field mouse.

“You like the thought of me adjusting my settings,” he murmured. “You like me to be… messy.”

It was probably downright illegal for something to be as hot as Connor – inhumanly perfect Connor – to say something like that while looking so rumpled, naked and covered inside and out with jizz, hair tousled, face flushed.

“Do you like it?” Hank asked. Connor thought about it, LED blinking.

“… I like the thought of you liking me like that.”

He looked up, impish, eyes twinkling.

“I like the thought of you being messy too, Lieutenant.”

Hank groaned and ran a hand through Connor’s hair, ruffling it further. It was good to have it short again, not long like it had been undercover. Felt more like the Connor he knew and lo–

“You do, huh?” Hank said, stumbling on his words a bit as he avoided that particular line of thinking.

“I like _you._ Any way that I can have you, I want to experience it. I find you immensely sexually attractive – romantically as well. This is what made the undercover work difficult for me.”

“I knew it!” Hank burst out. “I knew it bothered you more than you let on! Mister Unflappable – you were just as squirrely as I was, playing a role like that.”

“I was… afraid you would not want me. The possibility of rejection alarmed me.”

“I’d have to be a damned fool not to want you. Lord knows, I’ve made my share of mistakes, but I’ll be damned if taking you for granted is one of them. Especially after Zeb pulled that bullshit and locked you in a bunker.”

“Hank,” Connor smiled fondly, cupping the human’s cheek. “I am so happy that cultists did not kill either of us. You were in more immediate danger than I was. I am very glad you were able to escape certain death. If you had died before I told you that, I would have regretted it for the rest of my existence.”

Hank felt a reckless stab of bravery (or self-destruction, depending on how you looked at it.)

“I think that’s when I knew that I – y’know. Cared about you. Finding you trapped like that, there was no more running away from it.”

Fuck. He couldn’t say it, even when he half wanted to. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or relieved by that.

“I love you too,” Connor replied. “You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to. I know.”

No one had ever given him permission like that before. No expectations. No pressure.

“But I wanna… I want that. To say it someday. It’s… I have a lot of baggage – not your fault. It’s just… it’s gonna take me awhile. But I’d… I’d be willing to try, if you’d be willing to stick around and humour an old fart like me.”

Connor’s smile was the only answer he needed for the moment. No deadlines, this time. They could take all the time they needed. He put a hand over the android's, gave his fingers a squeeze. The world was safer with Zeb in custody - but now, it felt a little _brighter_ , too.


End file.
